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|r:H*?pii|**gih!? 


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m 


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empreinte. 

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GROANS  AND  GRINS 


OF 


ONE  WHO  SURVIVED. 


BY 


/ 


BRUCE    WESTON    MUNRO. 

II 


PUBMSHKO  BY 

H.  L.  McQueen, 

Washinotoi*,  D.  C. 


A- 


I 


I 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1893, 

BY  BRUCE  W.  MUNRO, 

In  the  Office  of  the  I<ibrarian  of  Congress,  Washington,  D.  C. 


Prem  or  H.  L.  McQueen, 

WASHINOTON,  D.  C 


l^-JC*. 


r 


THIS  VOLUME  IS  NOT 
RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED  TO 

ANY  POTENTATE,  DOMESTIC  OR  FOREIGN; 

NOR  TO  ANY 

COLD,  CYNICAL,  AND  UNSYMPATHETIC 

AUTHOR,  DICTATOR,  OR  REVIEWER; 

NOR  YET 

TO  THE  SHADE  OF  ANY  IMMORTAL. 

BRIEFLY, 

IT  IS  NOT  DEDICATED  AT  ALL. 


.*3 


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PREFACE 


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« I 


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I  MIGHT  begin  with  a  hackneyed  phrase,  or  with  a  highly  original 
one.  I  shall  do  neither,  but  shall  simply  try  to  be  brief  an  i  point- 
ed. Prerace-writing  is  a  fine  art,  anyway,  in  which  one  n.Uurally 
wishes  to  show  off  his  talents  to  the  best  advantage  and  startle  the  reader 
into  the  belief  that  he  has  picked  up  the  work  of  a  genius;  while  the 
aim  of  the  desultory  sketches,  etc.,  of  this  volume  is  rather  to  catch 
the  reader  en  deshabille,  figuratively  speaking,  when  he  is  in  a  humor 
to  lay  aside  the  stereotyped  conventionalities  of  the  pains-taking  author, 
and  enjoy  a  frolic  with  some  whimsical  characters  who  oflen  break  all 
rules  of  etiquette  and  throw  grammar  to  the  bow-wows.  Not  that  these 
sketches  were  all  written  at  odd  times,  in  an  easy,  indifferent,  off-hand 
way,  when  laid  up  with  the  quinsy  or  thawing  out  froxen  anatomy  on 
a  cold  day,  and  not  minded  to  lose  any  golden  minutes.  By  no  means ; 
they  were  written  deliberately  and  soberly,  when  I  should  often  have 
been  reading  the  newspapers ;  and  as  the  printer  will  bear  witness  (if 
he  isn't  already  a  victim  to  softening  of  the  brain),  the  MS.  is  scarred 
with  frequent  and  annoying  erasures. 

A  little  more  regard  for  future  reputation  and  a  little  less  queasy 
compunction  about  destroying  the  wishy-washy  effusions  of  boyhood 
would  no  doubt  have  prompted  the  cutting  out  of  the  bulk  of  the  book 
— including  this  so-called  preface.  Out  of  the  century  of  sketches, 
stories,  etc.,  comprising  the  volume  there  are  at  least  ten  that  are 
utterly  foolish.  These  need  not  be  mentioned — lest  the  reader  should, 
for  onre  in  a  way,  agree  with  me,  to  the  extent  even  of  swelling  the 
list.  But  while  the  great  majority  of  us  lay  claim  to  having  common 
sense,  few  of  us  can  judiciously  exercise  it ;  and  it  is  a  question,  after 
all,  whether  any  one  but  a  weather-prophet  could  determine  just  how 
much  of  the  book  was  originally  written  before  my  wisdom  teeth  were 
cut,  and  how  much  after  the  dentist  pried  them  out  as  superfluous.  I 
shall  be  quite  satisfied  if  the  results  be  these :  First,  if  the  verdict  of  the 
general  reader  be  that  the  stories  are  amusing  in  spots,  and  that  the 
writer  must  certaiuly  have  iiis  lucid  intervals.  Second,  if  any  boy,  on 
the  perusal  of  this  compilation  (it  is  worthy  of  no  better  name),  be  led 


vt 


Prefact. 


u 


iiUo  the  way  of  wriUiiK  •UeKw!  funny  thingn,  nnd  Ihui  developing  the 
Intent  humor  there  i*  in  every  mainline  organiMU. 

Hut  it  i«  »o  eaay  to  aak  inipoMibililies.  For  instance,  it  would  be 
pleaMant  to  have  this  volume  jmlged  by  some  of  itn  cat  and  dog  ttorie*  ; 
whereas  the  unkind  reader  may  be  just  peevisb  enough  to  judge  it  by 
some  of  its  dreariest  tales  in  verse. 

An  inquisitive  young  lady  of  sixty  well-preserved  years  (I  generally 
respect  age,  and  do  so  even  in  this  case,  tiecause  it  is  hypothetical) 
asked  what  had  been  survived,  or  whether  the  title  of  the  book  were  a 
misnomer.  I  gravely  suggested  shipwreck,  the  Inquisition,  and  worse 
evils,  but  seeing  her  incredulous  smile,  truthfully  said  that  I  had  once 
entertained  the  idea  of  calling  it  "A  Maiden's  Inheritance  ;  or,  A  Hero 
to  the  Rescue;  or.  The  Witch's  Curse;  or.  Buried  'Neath  the  Blasted 
Pine."  This  would  have  lH;en  a  goo<l  all-round  title,  that  would  ad- 
mirably ail  the  bill  and  serve  in  lieu  of  a  frontispiece ;  but  consider- 
ation for  the  reader  caused  me  to  forbear.  Besides,  it  would  not  l)e  fair 
to  delude  any  guileless  youth  into  the  belief  that  he  had  gotten  hold  of 
an  interesting  dime  novel.  The  question,  however,  is  so  easily  answered 
that  it  is  not  expedient  to  argue  it  further ;  and  the  truth  is,  it  has  not 
been  survived  ;  it  is  liable  at  any  time  to  checkmate  me. 

While  in  a  former  volume  I  was  continually  prodding  the  reader 
under  the  fi(\h  rib  with  an  alpenstock  to  keep  him  from  falling  asleep, 
in  this  the  reader  is  left  severely  alone,  or  but  guardedly  taken  into 
my  confidence. 

It  is  regretable  that  some  of  the  best  things  buried  in  these  Groans 
AND  Grins  are  apparently  meaningless  passages  and  obscure  allusions 
to  individuals  and  incidents.  These,  of  course,  I  do  not  condescend  to 
clear  up ;  in  fact,  the  ethics  of  novel-writing  would  forbid  it,  even  were  I 
so  disposed. 

It  may  be  well  to  draw  the  reader's  attention  to  the  fact  that  the 
short  stories,  verses,  and  so  on,  written  in  the  first  person,  are  not  per- 
sonal to  me,  except  in  a  few  instances.  Four  or  five  of  them  are,  to 
be  sure,  but  only  one,  the  last  of  all,  confessedly  so. 

It  maylK!  added  that  this  preface  is  really  an  impromptu  effort, 
written  without  premeditation  or  malice  aforethought.  Let  it  go  at 
that.     The  chances  are  that  the  indifferent  reader  will  never  look  at  the 

preface,  anyway.  ' 

*^  BRUCE  WESTOl^  MUNRO. 


M 


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...  .jti^mjC^. 


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)» 


CONTENTS. 


M 


I'AUR. 

Proem     i 

The  i^sthetic  Chromo  Artist 3 

A  Missing  Testimonial 5 

Another  Valued  Testimonial 9 

Our  Visit  to  the  Country 13 

I'lacouraging  a  Journalist: 

I. — As  a  Mute,  Inglorious  Milton 19 

Grandmother's  Apple  Pies  .    .    ; 29 

Discouraging  a  Journalist : 

II. — As  an  Unfledged  Humorist 31 

The  Musical  Boarding-House 38 

How  Peter  Shuflled  Off 40 

Hart  Gilbert  Palmer 44 

Such  is  Life 59 

Could  I  But  Know! .  60 

The  Creek  by  the  School-House 62 

The  Privateer  and  the  Pirate •64 

Take  Courage  ! 68 

Uncle  Dick  at  Church 69 

To  the  First  Organ  Grii'der  of  the  Season 71 

Wild  Bill  at  Trickeys'  Corners 73 

The  Old  Wood  Stove 77 

A  Sad  Face  on  the  Street 78 

A  Rainy  April  Day 81 

The  Small  Boy  in  the  Choir     . 85 

vii 


I^f 


H>-- 


; 


viii  Contents. 

Groans  of  the  First  Frenzy  Period 88 

My  First  Proposal 89 

Oone ! , 100 

Some  Village  Characters loi 

Her  Majesty's  C^istoms 109 

A- Disillusioned  Innocent 115 

A  Modern  Columbus 118 

To  Baby  Frederica 121 

To  Margarita 123 

How  I  Loved  and  Lost  my  Nelly 124 

How  I  Loved  and  Lost  my  Janet 130 

Sing  Me  the  Old  Songs 136 

To  My  Old  Dog,  Nero 138 

The  Little  Lone  House 140 

The  Scholars'  vSecret 150 

A  Nice  Lot  of  Pets 152 

The  Washington  Climate 153 

When  It  Is  May 156 

The  Engineer's  Song 158 

The  Railwayman's  Trials 161 

An  Experienced  Traveller 168 

The  Folder  Fiend     172 

A  Severe  Test * 179 

The  Long-Suffering  Tramp 182 

So  Let  Death  Haste 185 

How  the  Hatchet  Came  to  be  Buried i86 

Groans  that  Found  Utterance  After  the  Fall  of  the 

Second  Babylon.     I.,  II.,  III.,  IV.,  V 198 

Two  Incidents  in  a  Brave  Man's  Life 202 

Alway  Alone ' 216 

What  Augustus  Wrote  in  Lucy's  Album  ......  216 

Another  Album  Verse     .    .    . 217 

When  Roses  Blush  My  Love  Will  Sail 218 


ill 


of  the 


88 
89 

ICX) 
lOI 

109 

115 
118 

121 

124 
130 
136 

138 
140 

153 
156 

161 
168 
172 
179 
183 
185 
186 

198 
202 
216 
216 
217 
218 


tm3t^ 


Contents. 


IX 


My  Ifive  Hath  Come  When  Roses  Blush  .....      219 

^ard  Luck 220 

The  ToU-Gate    .    .   ..'.......;......  224 

How  a  Coolness  Arose  Between  Bill  and  Nero    .   .    .  227 

To  Mignonne 236 

Hiram's  Oath 238 

So  Shall  I  Sleep   .......       276 

Vain  Triumph '277 

The  Archer  and  the  Eagle     .........       ...  281 

Mammon .   .291 

Time,  the  Healer 291 

Things  Begin  to  get  Interesting 292 

Signs  of  Spring 300 

Our  New  Girl 302 

A  Smoker  to  his  Pipe 310 

A  Night  with  Ghosts 311 

The  Letter  that  Came  Not — And  the  Letter  that  Came   312 

An  Interview  with  the  Prophets 313 

'Tis  May 316 

Judith's  Dilemma 317 

The  Wayside  Chapel 331 

A  Terrible  Mistake 333 

Sing  Me  a  Song  of  Olden  Days 334 

Alone  with  Grief 335 

City  Life  vs.  Country  Life .      337 

The  Freshet 349 

Lucy  and  the  Fortune-Teller 351 

A  Woman's  Hand 360 

My  Girlhood  Days 361 

How  He  Quit  Smoking ' .'  .  364 

" C 'est  pour  Toujours,  Nelly" 368 

Her  Story  and  His  Story .   .   .  369 

Nancy  Ann's  Elopement 376 


X  Contents. 

An  Early  Snow-Storm .  3*8 

Little  Maud's  Wedding  Day 389 

Not  According  to  the  Guide-Boofcs  ...    .   ;    .   .    .   ..390 

To  Death 393 

The  Old  Hand-Sled      394 

So  Have  I  Loved  You !  .   .   . 39^ 

A  Little  Rosebud  Mouth 397 

The  Gipsy  Supper 39* 

The  Abandoned  Graveyard 4«> 

A  Trip  to  Washington    ...       402 


•  388 

•  389 
..390 

•  393 
394 
396 

.  397 
.  398 
.  4«> 
.  402 


GROANS  AND  GRINS 

or 
ONE  WHO  SURVIVED. 


'tl 


'  JiiiiiifliMiiTiiiiiafiii'i'^ 


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PROEM. 

As  in  dreams  the  old  delusions. 
The  old  faces,  the  fond  mem'ries. 
Are  revived,  and  the  old-  heart-break. 
That  in  sleep  is  oft  rebellious. 
With  o'ermasfring  domination. 
Bursts  the  mighty  PasPs  locked  portals- 


THE  ^^THETIC  CHROMO  ARTIST. 

Why  does  the  chrotno  ailist  show 
No  river  scene  without  a  boat, 
In  which  two  lovers  are  afloat, 
Who  on  the  landscape  seem  to  dote. 

The  while  the  moon  is  rising  slow; 
While  just  above,  two  antlered  deer 
Are  drinking  freely,  with  no  fear, 
And  a  belated  fisher-boy 
Is  trudging  home,  with  fev'rish  joy? 

Real  lovers  heed  no  landscape  fair, 

Though  most  would  track  deer  to  their  lair, 

And  scare  rude  fisher-boys  away. 

How  is  it  no  such  painter  gives 

A  view  of  some  quaint,  winding  stream. 
Whereon  the  gods  oC  old  might  seem 
To  float,  as  in  ecstatic  dream, 

Without  insisting  that  there  lives 
A  pair  of  stupid,  homely  swains, 
Who  have  no  use  for  railway  trains. 
But  yet  must  saunter  in  this  spot. 
To  spoil  the  choice  forget-me-not. 

And  stare,  just  i^ke  a  pair  of  fools. 

At  an  obtrusive  ''train  of  cars"? 

Why  can  he  never  show  "still  life"? 
Why  must  he  have  his  railway-track 
With  long  "  mixed  "  trains  forever  black  ? 
While  on  most  lines  there  is  no  lack 

Of  quiet  times,  when  tracks  are  rife 

With  foot-sore  tramps,  who  sometimes  are, 
I  doubt,  more  picturesque  by  far 
Than  his  eternal,  ill-drawn  trains. 
Why  must  his  mills  show  weather  stains, 

And  hint  of  romance  ?  when  we  know 

In  these  days  'tis  but  seldom  so, 

For  we  have  steam  mills,  built  of  stone. 


^mmumB 


S^^i&Mgi'-'f^'y':ii'^i'-'' 


im^smrv^' 


The  /Esthetic  Cbromo  Artist. 


How  la  it  that  he  never  shows 

An  orchard,  but  it  must  be  crowned 
With  sweet  May-blossoms,  or  be  browned 
With  sun-lit  fruit,  while  on  the  ground 

The  mellow  harvest  overflows? 

Yet  I  have  seen  fair  apple  trees 
O'erhung  with  worms'  nests  as  with  bees ; 
And  now  and  then  there  comes  a  time 
When  fruit  is  nipped  right  in  its  prime 

By  keen  June  frosts,  and  we  are  fain 

To  be  content  if  we  can  gain 

A  barrelful  of  knurly  pears. 

Why  does  he  make  his  hunter  sUnd 

With  both  hands  crossed  upon  his  gun, 
And  look  as  though  he'd  had  no  fun, 
And  positively  could  not  run ; 

Though  all  the  game  within  the  land 
'  He  evidently  has  just  shot? 
Why  should  he  roads  with  toll-gates  dot, 
<         Which  scarce  are  welcome?    Wherefore  show 
In  Christmas  scenes  such  wealth  of  snow  ? 

Such  things  are  very  well,  I  ween, 

And  yet,  as  in  a  dream,  I've  seen 

A  winter  where  the  snow  was  mud. 

How  is  it  that  we  never  see 

A  rural  landscape  minus  cows, 
That  on  fair  lilies  seem  to  browse. 
Or  in  pure,  purling  brooks  carouse. 

With  urchins  up  a  beech-nut  tree? 
And  yet,  I  wot,  there  is  no  doubt 
We  'd  rather  have  the  cows  left  out 
When  we  go  camping  in  the  woods — 
Especially  if  there  are  red  hoods 

Among  us;  and  beech  trees  I've  known 

Where  squirrels  got  ahead  of  boys. 


i 


ll 


A  Missing  Testimonial. 


A  MISSING  TESTIMONIAL. 

AM ATRONLY  cat  that  has  successfully  reared  seventeen 
families  that  have  all  turned  out  well,  sends  in  the 
following  grateful  recommend  of  Dr.  Humbugger's  unequalled 
' '  Proprietary  Medicines. ' '  As  the  learned  doctor  can  not  con- 
sistently publish  it  in  almanac  form  at  this  inopportune  time 
of  year  (the  only  mistake  Mrs.  Pussy  Cat  makes  is  in  forward- 
ing her  testimonials  in  February  instead  of  September),  no 
time  is  lost  in  placing  her  letter,  herewith  before  "suffering 
humanity."  It  is  manifest  that  these  high  encomiums  are 
genuine  and  unsolicited. 

"Dear  Sirs  :  —  I  beg  to  enclose  you  a  photograph  of  my 
seventeenth  family  of  triplets.  From  too  much  fondling  by 
my  genial  host's  impulsive  son,  they  became  reduced  to  a  mere 
skeleton  at  the  early  age  of  seven  weeks,  and  I  despaired  of 
saving  their  precious  lives.  But  fortunately  I  got  hold  of  a 
phial  of  your  marvelous  Lung- Waster  Cordial,  which  I  began 
using  according  to  your  printed  directions.  The  first  dose 
brought  them  relief,  and  eight  dozen  bottles  effected  a  perma- 
nent cure. 

"This  amazing  result  induced  me  to  try  your  celebrated 
Angel-Maker  Bitters  for  Tommy,  an  elder  son  of  mine. 
Tommy  was  gifted  by  nature  with  a  magnificent  solo  voice, 
and  for  months  past  has  been  the  leader  of  our  Harmony  Club, 
and  has  organized  many  brilliant  serenading  tours.  His  mid- 
night glees  are  everywhere  greeted  with  tumultuous  applause 


T\ 


6  /*  Missing  Testimonial, 

and  peremptory  encores  of  '  Scat !  Scat ! '  from  impulsive  hu- 
man-tribe beings,  who  can  not  restrain  their  enthusiasm.  In 
fact,  their  rapturous  emotions  often  become  so  uncontrollable 
that  they  prodigally  heave  valuable  kitchen  and  toilet  articles 
out  of  the  windows,  and  address  congratulatory  speeches  to 
him,  largely  composed  of  those  complimentary  phrases  begin- 
ning '  By .'    On  more  than  one  occasion  Tommy  has 

narrowly  escaped  being  hit  by  elegant  bouquets  of  boot-jacks, 
thrown  by  some  ardent  admirer  belonging  to  the  impetuous 
human  tribe.     But  one  bitterly  cold  night  Tommy  came  home 
at  3  A.  M.,  complaining  of  a  hoarseness  in  his  throat.     I  nat- 
urally became  alarmed,  fearing  it  might  result  in  pneumonia. 
The  next  day  Tommy  was  worse,  and  imagine  my  anguish  on 
realizing  that  his  glorious  voice  was  likely  to  be  impaired! 
There  were  plenty  of  rivals  who  would  have  rejoiced  to  see  my 
noble  boy's  star  wane,  and  peter  out.     From  this  you  will 
understand  my  intense  satisfaction  and  overflowing  gratitude 
to  you  ;  for  twenty-two  bottles  of  Angel-Maker  Bitters  and 
one  two-pound  tin  of  Don't-keep-it-in-the-house  Salve  re- 
stored his  voice  to  its  pristine  vigor.     He  has  since  taken 
twice  his  weight  of  your  Rough-on-Health  Pills,  with  the 
very  best  results. 

"But  I  must  pnxxed  to  inform  you  of  other  incredible 
cures.  Miss  Minnie,  a  petted  daughter  of  mine,  was  once 
out  charivariing  a  white  race  tyrant  who  had  annoyed  several 
callers  by  turning  an  infernal-machine  called  a  hose  upon 
them,  when  she  contracted  a  severe  cold  and  was  badly  frost- 
bitten about  the  ears.  I  liberally  applied  your  Out-of-the- 
frying-pan-into-the-fire  Liniment  to  my  dariing's  ears,  and 
dosed  her  with  your  Stomach-Paralyzer  Tonic.  This  is  the 
triumphant  result:  She  lost  the  tips  of  her  ears,  but  her  in- 
tellect thawed  out,  and  her  white  brooch  and  whiskers  were 
saved!    Far  from  suffering  any  ill  effects  from  the  loss  of  her 


ve  hu- 
ll.    In 
oUable 
irticles 
;hes  to 
begin- 
ay  has 
:-jacks, 
letuous 
e  home 
Inat- 
monia. 
uish  on 
paired! 
I  see  my 
'ou  will 
"atitude 
ers  and  ' 
alve  re- 
e  taken 
rith  the 

credible 
as  once 
,  several 
je  upon 
ly  £rost- 
t-of-the- 
urs,  and 
s  is  the 
;  her  in- 
ers  were 
iS  of  her 


A  Missing  Testimonial.  7 

ear- tips,  Minnie  thinks  it  gives  her  rather  a  dis/iug-u^  appear- 
ance, and  I  predict  she  has  set  a  fashion  that  other  feline  belles 
and  beaux  will  hasten  to  copy. 

"Now  we  come  to  the  most  wonderful  cures  of  all,  the 
crowning  work  of  your  invaluable  specifics.  One  awful  day 
a  playmate  of  my  kind  host's  son  committed  the  diabolical 
crime  of  assassination  on  a  most  dutiful  and  amiable  son  of 
mine,  a  little  younger  than  my  beloved  Tommy,  by  drowning 
him  in  a  bucket  of  abominable  drinking  water  1  I  shudder  to 
this  hour  when  I  think  of  it.  Oh,  he  was  such  a  promising 
youth !  He  is  yet ;  for  your  Heart-Stiller  Compound  brought 
him  back  to  life  and  health  !  In  retaliation  for  this  dastardly 
outrage  on  an  innocent  life,  my  heroic  son  Tom  last  week 
waylaid  the  canary-bird  of  the  man-tribe  assassin,  and  made 
a  bird's-nest  pudding  of  it,  and  the  next  day  captured  his 
tame  white  mouse  and  brought  it.  home,  when  we  prepared  a 
rich  ragout  and  invited  in  two  or  three  family  connections. 
Afy  restored  darling,  Pete,  was  able  to  digest  a  little  fricasseed 
mouse,  and  is  now  able  to  go  out  into  society  again. 

' '  We  all  thought  this  would  crush  the  murderous  white- 
tribe  child,  and  bring  his  short  black  hair  to  a  premature 
maturity.  Alas,  uo !  It  is  wonderful  how  quickly  that  race 
can  throw  off  their  griefs.  Yesterday  his  papa  brought  him 
a  monkey,  and  to-day  the  foul  creature,  as  I  was  going  up- 
stairs for  a  nap  in  the  work-basket,  caught  me  by  my  termi- 
nal facilities  (as  my  host,  a  railway  man,  enviously  calls  my 
graceful  tail),  and  actually  dropped  me  into  a  tub  of  filthy 
'bathing- water,'  which  the  deluded  man- tribe  animals  pre- 
pare for  a  '  bath '  every  Saturday  —  or  oftener !  Of  course 
they  considered  it  clean,  because  it  hadn't  been  used  yet.  I 
was  never  subjected  to  so  shameful  an  indignity  in  my  life. 
It  makes  my  blood  boil !  You  naturally  ask  in  alarm,  did  I 
really  get  wet?    Sirs,  I  sank  beneath  that  hideous  water,  and 


A  Missing  Testimonial. 


with  difficulty  rescued  myself.  What  to  do  I  did  not  know 
till  I  remembered  your  Out-of-the-frying-p»n-into-the-fire 
Liniment.  Without  doubt,  this  has  saved  my  life.  I  have 
tince  started  on  a  bottle  of  your  Silencer  Elixir,  and  after 
dinner  shall  try  some  of  your  Slow- Decay  Preparation,  and 
next  week  hope  to  feel  myself  again.  To-night  wt  purpose 
to  charivari  the  monkey-monster,  and  may  feel  ourselves 
called  upon  to  compass  his  ignominious  execution.  In  case 
of  any  set-to  with  him,  or  in  the  event  of  any  intestine  strife, 
we  must  again  resort  to  your  remedies,  when  I  will  promptly 
write  you  full  particulars. 

"  N.  B.— If  you  can  make  any  use  of  this  testimonial  you 
are  perfectly  at  liberty  to  use  my  name.  May  it  do  for  other 
suffering  mortals  what  it  has  done  for  me  and  mine. 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

"Mrs.  Pussy  Cat." 


' 


If  a  tramp  evangelist  from  Kentucky,  with  a  push-cartful 
of  circus-poster  letters  of  recommend,  can  wheedle  a  rising 
barrister  of  tender  years  out  of  his  own  good  opinion  of  him- 
self, what  else  need  we  expect  from  the  discovery  of  these  un- 
forged  testimonials  but  a  renaissance  of  Scottish  chivalry 
and  a  decadence  of  legal  previousness  ? 


-^-.5. 


:_^«{»  ' — 


)t  know 
the-fire 
I  have 
id  after 
on,  and 
purpose 
iiraelves 
In  case 
e  strife, 
romptly 

lial  you 
ar  other 


:at. 


i-cartful 
a  rising 
of  him- 
hese  un- 
chivalry 


Another  yalueJ  ItitimouiaL 


ANOTHER  VALUED  TESTIMONIAL. 

SURELY  enough,  within  two  weeks  Mrs.  Pussy  Cat  sent 
in  another  testimonial,  which  is  herewith  given  to  the 
reader  in  its  entirety  : — 

"  Dbar  Srns: — I  again  feel  it  my  dut\'  to  inform  you  of  the 
astonishing  cures  your  remedies  are  performing.  But  for 
them,  several  old  families  would  have  been  completely  wiped 
out. 

"We  had  a  terrible  time  on  the  occasion  of  our  last  chari- 
vari. At  my  urgent  request,  Tommy  did  not  start  out  with 
his  famous  crescendo,  but  contented  himself  with  trilling  a 
sonorous  bass,  which  at  intervals  became  an  ecstatic  tremulo. 
Tommy's  versatility  is  past  all  belief. 

"It  was  soon  evident  that  our  recital  was  awakening  un- 
usual interest  in  the  man-tribe  hou.seholds,  and  that  an  un- 
expected demonstration  from  them  would  soon  come.  It  did 
come;  and  it  was  both  unexpected  and  undesired.  Suddenly 
the  monkey-monster  himself  shot  sailing  through  the  air,  as 
though  discharged  from  a  giddy  schoolboy's  catapult.  Did  it 
mean  that  the  motive  of  our  clamorous  protest  was  under- 
stood, and  that  the  hideous  creature  was  to  be  sacrificed  to 
ot^.r  outraged  sensibilities  ?  That  is  a  disputed  question  to 
this  day,  since  we  can  not  determine  that  any  of  the  conflict- 
ing rumors  are  correct. 

"The  concert  broke  up  in  confusion,  and  many  of  our 
bravest  veterans  fled  the  field.     In  fact,  the  grandest  here 


/ 


lO 


Another  Valued  Testimonial. 


of  our  community,  who  has  carried  off  more  scars  and  bears 
more  medals  than  any  warrior  of  our  contemporary  an- 
nals— even  he,   our  haughty  generalissimo,   precipitately 
attempted  to  scale  an  utterly  unscalable  chimney.     He  fell, 
with  his  habitual  gracefulness,  fairly  upon  the  monkey- 
monster,  afterwards  claiming  his  intention  was  to  gain  vant- 
age ground  for  a  reconnaissance.     But  Tom  insists  it  was 
cowardice,  unworthy  of  even  the  human  tribe.     My  Tom  is 
a  musician,  not  a  combatant,  while  Pete  is  a  society  pet;  yet 
these  gallant  boys,  seeing  that  the  old  general  was  on  his 
mettle  again  and  engaged  in  a  victorious  hand-to-hand  con- 
flict with  the  enemy,  sounded  a  reveille,  and  bore  down  on 
the  scene  with  intrepid  valor.     Tom  encouraged  the  cowardly 
old  veteran  to  fight  it  out  to  the  bitter  end;  while  Pete,  with 
foolhardy  but  unheard-of  daring,  attacked  the  monster's  un- 
sightly tail.    He  said  afterwards  that  he  was  never  calmer  in 
his  life,  knowing  that  even  though  he  should  be  grazed  by  a 
parried  blow,  we  had  access  to  your  System-Shatterer  Specific. 
"Tom  and  Pete  had  thus  all  but  conquered  the  monster 
when  a  human-tribe  woman  appeared,  armed  with  a  broom, 
and  prepared  to  do  battle  on  our  side.    The  monkey,  in  des- 
pair, at  once  gave  up  the  struggle  and  surrendered  to  this 
person,  who  carried  the  crushed  and  abject  creature  away, 
to  some  frightfiil  punishment,  we  doubt  not.    Our  humiliated 
veteran  slank  painfully  away  (he  has  since  died  of  grief  and 
shame  for  his  cowardice),  and  several  of  the  musicians,  supes, 
and  prompt'.frs  returning,  heartily  congratulated  n?y  brave 
boys  on  their  splendid  victory.     They  have  even  gone  so  far 
as  since  to  confer  a  new  Order  of  Merit  upon  them — that  of 
the  Unterrified  Bystanders.     That  very  evening  Tom  and 
Pete  began  to  take  your  Muscle-Attacker  Compound,  your 
Insomnia-Inducer  Mixture,  and  your  Mortal-Coil-Shufller 
Prescription,  and  are  now  fast  getting  over  the  effects  of  the 


M 


d  bears 
iry  an- 
[>itately 
He  fell, 
lonkey- 
n  vant- 
it  was 
Tom  is 
)et;  ytt 
on  his 
id  con- 
)wn  on 
)wardly 
te,  with 
er's  un- 
ilmer  in 
:ed  by  a 
specific, 
monster 
broom, 
in  des- 
to  this 
e  away, 
miliated 
rief  and 
),  supes, 
y  brave 
le  so  far 
-that  of 
om  and 
id,  your 
Shuffler 
s  of  the 


Another  Valued  Testimonial. 


II 


terrible  scene  with  the  monkey.  I  think  if  the  cowardly  old 
veteran  had  tried  a  little  of  your  General-Debility-Bringer 
Ointment,  or  your  Brain-Softener-Resolvent,  or  even  your 
Sight-Dimmer  Wash,  he  might  be  spinning  his  yams  among 
us  yet,  as  in  the  palmy  days  of  his  fighting  and  vainglorious 
youth. 

"I  must  now  acquaint  you  with  the  details  of  Tom's 
wonderful  recovery  from  hereditary  insanity— or  incipient 
mumps.     I  don't  clearly  make  out  which  from  your  diag- 
nosis.   The  other  day  Tom  scented  a  savory  smell  of  fish,  and 
found  a  rich  treat  of  pure  California  salmon  in  a  fish-can, 
which  had  been  considerately  opened  and  carefully  carried 
out  into  the  garden  by  one  of  our  host's  attentive  children, 
Tom  inserted  his  noble  Egyptian  head  into  the  opening,  and 
was  enjoying  a  delicious  repast,  when  suddenly  a  ferocious 
Dog  bounded  upon  him !    To  his  horror,  Tom  found  he 
could  not  withdraw  his  head  from  the  fish-can,  nor  shake  it 
ofiF !    But  with  his  characteristic  courage,  he  ran  as  only  a 
feline  hero  can  run.    A  terrific  shock  apprised  him  that  he 
had  brought  up  against  the  garden-wall  (poor  Tom  could 
not  see,  you  will  understand,  but  he  looked  majestically 
picturesque,  as  he  dashed  gallantly  hither  and  thither),  and 
he  abruptly  changed  his  course  and  eventually  found  him- 
self in  his  luxurious  nook  in  the  woodshed;  while  the  stupid 
Dog  kept  right  on,  and  burnt  his  tail  on  the  kitchen  range. 
I  promptly  got  out  a  bottle  of  your  Apoplexy  -  Producer 
Preparation  and  placed  it  in  plain  sight,  which  enabled  our 
host's  daughter  to  remove  the  fish-can  easily.     We  have 
been  doctoring  Tom  ever  since  with  your  Cancer-Fetcher 
Gargle,  your  Nerve-Shaker  Draft,  and  yoiu:  various  other 
specifics,  to  such  good  eflfect  that  Tom  was  able  yesterday  to 
attend  a  reheafsal. 

"  I  had  thought  to  write  you  of  further  unparalleled  cures. 


-^'{i? 


r 


la 


tAnotber  t^alued  Testimonial. 


but  think  I  have  done  my  share.    It  is  sufHcient  to  add  that 
no  feline  nursery  should  be  without  your  remedies. 
"  Respectfully  yours, 

"  Mrs.  Pussy  Cat." 


If  an  unworthy  disciple  of  Esculapius  can  successfully 
juggle  two  large-limbed  executors,  untrammelled  by  anything 
but  their  own  Unpurified  Conscience,  out  of  twenty-two 
dollars  in  excess  of  his  lawful  hire,  what  else  need  the 
blindfold  Goddess  of  Justice  expect  fh>m  all  this  but  a 
frenzied  entreaty  to  take  her  "  darned  old  gun  "  and  go  in 
peace? 


-^^^^^^^^ 


Our  Visit  to  the  Country. 


»3 


idd  that 


:at. 


OUR  VISIT  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 


cessfuUy 
inything 
inty-two 
leed  the 
s  but  a 
id  go  in 


ONE  joyous  day  in  May  I  decided  that  it  would  be 
very  pleasant  to  go  down  to  the  old  home  in  the 
country  and  pass  the  summer  there.  What  could  be  so  de- 
lightful as  a  picket  hen-house,  a  vagabond  sheep-dog,  an 
honest  cordwood  stove,  and  a  roomy  frame  house,  built  by 
an  architect  who  had  never  studied  architecture  or  trigo- 
nometry? Three  miles  from  the  post-office,  five  miles  from 
the  Brie  Railway,  and  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  the 
neatest  large  city  —  what  more  could  a  mortal  ask,  who 
simply  wished  to  forget,  for  a  few  months,  that  the  world 
moves,  and  that  Ireland  longs  to  join  in  the  procession. 

Such  were  the  arguments  I  used  to  persuade  my  wife, 
Panuy,  much  against  her  will,  to  pack  up  and  go  down 
into  the  country.     I  had  my  way,  and  we  went. 

The  old  house  had  been  vacant  nearly  a  year,  and  con- 
sequently needed  airing.  The  doors  would  all  open  easily 
enough,  but,  as  Fanny  said,  they  wouldn't  shut  again 
without  putting  forth  great  effort.  I  tried  hard  to  persuade 
her  that  by  leaving  them  all  wide  open,  such  a  state  of 
affairs  would  result  in  a  net  gain  to  us  of  seven  full  golden 
hours  in  the  course  of  every  five  years, 

A  spavined  horse  and  a  mild-mannered  cow  were  procured 
and  installed  in  the  cow-stable,  and  a  most  substantial  buggy 
was  borrowed  from  a  man  who  had  owed  ray  father  ten 
dollars.     I  felt  that  nothing  more  could  be  desired  to  make 


V.:., 


vm 


r 


H 


Our  Visit  to  tbe  Country. 


home  happy,  but  my  wife  insisted  on  having  a  cat.  Scarcely 
a  day  passed  but  an  adult  cat,  touring  the  country  incognito, 
would  wander  into  our  premises,  partake  of  liquid  refresh- 
ment from  the  milk  pans,  and  then  good-humoicdly  resume 
its  Knight-errantry.  I  tried  to  persuade  Fanny  to  take  up 
with  some  one  of  these  Bohemian  cats,  but  the  adventurous 
spirit  was  too  strongly  developed  in  them,  and  besides, 
she  preferred  a  feline  of  domestic,  and  not  of  cosmopolitan 

tastes. 

At  the  end  of  two  brief  weeks,  our  cow,  infused  with  the 
spirit  of  the  age,  boycotted  us,  refusing  absolutely  to  give  any 
more  milk  ;  and  I  engaged  a  warty-fingered  boy  (not  neces- 
sarily because  he  was  afflicted  with  warty  fingers,  but  because 
it  was  difficult  to  find  a  well-developed  boy  not  so  afflicted)  to 
bring  us  milk  daily.  He  always  came  before  we  were  up, 
and  generally  hung  about  till  dinner-time— not  because  he 
sympathised  with  our  loneliness,  but  because  such  was  his 
idea  of  etiquette.  From  him  Fanny  got  a  kitten,  and  our 
household  was  now  complete. 

We  were  three  miles  from  the  post-office,  as  was  men- 
tioned above,  and  the  mail-carrier,  on  his  route  past  our 
place  once  a  day  to  an  inlying  village,  left  our  letters,  etc.  It 
was  odd  how  eagerly  I  would  watch  for  him,  considering 
that  I  had  come  to  this  place  to  get  away  from  the  world. 
The  carrier  had  an  easy,  graceful  way,  acquired  from  dex- 
terous practice,  of  tossing  mail  matter  into  the  ditch  and  of 
cracking  our  sheep-dog's  ears  with  his  whip.  But  as  he 
drew  a  salary  of  Two  hundred  dollars  a  year  fiwm  the 
Government  for  carrying  Uncle  Sam's  mails,  he  was  the 
autocrat  of  the  road,  and  every  one  meekly  yielded  to  his 
imperious  ways. 

Our  house  stood  almost  on  the  road — or  rather,  on  a  cross- 
road, and  we  were  hailed  night  and  day  by  stalwart  tramps. 


Our  Visit  to  the  Country. 


15 


At  night  I  bade  then?,  follow  the  telegraph  poles,  and  during 
the  day  mechanically  directed  them  to  Chicago,  New  York, 
Vermont,  Ireland,  and  the  Black  Hills.  Right  over  the  way 
fix>m  our  house  stood  a  large  open  shed,  appertaining  to  a 
disused  chapel  close  by,  thus  making  our  comer  quite  con- 
spicuous. I  always  had  my  suspicions  that  a  tramp  occa- 
sionally put  up  over  night  in  this  shed,  but  never  hinted  it 
to  Fanny,  knowing  it  would  dispel  all  the  charm  of  country 
life  for  her. 

One  evening,  as  I  sat  in  the  open  doorway,  a  gaunt  and 
shadowy  figure  emerged  fix>m  this  shed,  sidled  over  to  me, 
and  humbly  asked  permission  to  stay  there  all  night.  I  told 
him  t^at  the  shed  didn't  come  under  my  "jurisdiction,"  but 
belonged  absolutely  to  the  public,  and  was  free  to  the  public. 
"  As  you,"  I  continued,  "  are  a  public  man — presumably  a 
publican  and  a  sinner  —  you  are  perfectly  at  liberty  to  occupy 
the  shed."  All  this  sounded  magnanimous  on  my  part,  and 
the  stranger  gravely  thanked  me,  and  as  gravely  informed  me 
that  he  was  a  Division  Superintendent  of  the  mines  along  the 
J.  M.  &  I.  railroad,  on  his  way  East  to  arrange  for  a  shipment 
of  new  plant.  I  said  I  was  very  happy  to  make  his  acquaint- 
ance, and  I  loaded  him  up  with  cold  victuals  enough  to  win  over 
the  farmers'  dogs  for  the  next  thirty-six  hours,  and  fifty  cents 
to  help  pay  the  freightage  on  his  shipment  of  plant.  Then  he 
cordially  invited  me  to  visit  him  some  time  at  his  beautiful 
home  in  Louisville,  or  to  come  and  pass  a  fortnight  with  him 
on  his  ranch  in  Texas.  I  always  eoutd  make  friends;  I  pre- 
sume I  have  twenty- five  standing  invitations  to  put  in  a  week 
or  a  month  at  gentlemen's  ranches  in  Texas,  Colorado,  Cal- 
ifornia, British  Columbia,  La  Plata,  New  South  Wales,  and 
Cape  Colony. 

Coming  in  from  a  swing  in  the  hammock,  Fanny  over- 
heard the  latter  part  of  our  conversation,  and  at  once  took 


i6 


Our  Visit  to  the  Country. 


alarm  — in  fact,  was  frightened  almost  to  death.  In  vaiti  I 
assured  her  that  the  Division  Superintendent  was  a  patri- 
archal-appearing  man ;  that  his  right  hand  hung  in  a  shng ; 
that  he  could  see  well  out  of  only  one  eye ;  and  that  the  only 
visible  weapon  he  carried  was  a  heavy  brass  ring,  worn  on 
the  index  finger  of  his  left  hand. 

But  my  wife  was  morally  certain  that  the  Division  Super- 
intendent proposed  to  draw  his  supply  of  plant  from  our 
premises  and  she  insisted  that  everything  out  of  doors  should 
be  brought  in  and  locked  up.     Accordingly  I  brought  into 
the  kitchen  ten  croquet  hoops,  fifteen  yards  of  clothes  line,  a 
willow  bird-cage,  a  buck-basket  full  of  oyster  and  peach  cans, 
a  fragment  of  a  horse-shoe,  our  dog's  dinner  plate,  and  hke- 
wise  some  of  his  best  beef  bones,  a  saw-horse,  and  a  basswood 
bench      I  furbished  and  reloaded  my  seven-shooter,  and  slept 
with  it  under  my  pillow;  but  Fanny,  with  the  sheep-dog, 
sat  up  all  night  Jong,  with  the  lamp  on  a  low  chair  and 
blankets  hung  over  the  windows,  reading  the  History  of 
Alonzo  and  Melissa.     The  next  morning  the  Division  Super- 
intendent was  gone ;  and  so  were  a  pair  of  pullets  and  the  pad- 
lock of  the  hen-house  door.     Fanny  was  right,  but  I  would 
never  acknowledge  it.  .,,_.. 

About  this  time  we  were  alarmed  one  night  by  the  most 
demoniacal -or  rather  supernatural  -  cries  from  the  chapel 
near  us  I  pretended  to  be  simply  mystified  as  to  the  cause 
of  the  "phenomenon."  but  Fanny  showed  more  nerve  than 
I  did  The  next  day  it  was  discovered  that  her  kitten  had 
made  a  mysterious  disappearance.  A  strange  dog  had  chased 
it  under  the  chapel,  and  the  poor  creature  had  got  into  so 
tight  a  place  that  it  could  not  get  out  again.  At  the  risk 
of  my  neck  I  rescued  it,  of  course  ;  and  the  ghost  was  laid. 

We  had  often  noticed  bees  flying  in  and  out  of  cracks  in 
the  outside  of  the  house,  but  paid  no  attention  to  it  till,  too 


Our  yisit  to  the  Country. 


X7 


vain  I 

patri- 

sling ; 
be  only 
oni  on 

Super- 
>m  our 
I  should 
ht  into 
s  line,  a 
:h  cans, 
id  like- 
isswood 
nd  slept 
%p-dog, 
lair  and 
story  of 
n  Super- 
the  pad- 
I  would 

he  most 
le  chapel 
he  cause 
;rve  than 
tten  had 
d  chased 
tt  into  so 
the  risk 
IS  laid, 
cracks  in 
t  till,  too 


late,  we  found  that  the  whole  frame-work  of  the  house  was 
literally  infested  with  bees,  wasps,  and  hornets.     We  were  al- 
most besieged  by  them ;  there  was  not  a  square  yard  of ' '  clap- 
board "  but  had  its  stronghold  of  the  buzzing  peats.    They 
soon  had  such  a  footing  established  at  the  back  door  that  it 
was  no  longer  safe  to  come  in  that  way;  so  we  bolted  the  door 
on  the  inside,  and  notified  such  of  our  neighbors  as  were  back- 
door callers.     I  believe  it  afforded  Fanny  no  little  cold-blooded 
amusement  to  see  a  tramp  march  boldly  up  to  this  door,  and 
knock,  ostensibly  to  inquire  the  way.    The  first  knock  not 
being  answered,  he  would  pound  vigorously  on  the  door,  and 
a  detachment  of  hornets,  fully  a  hundred  strong,  would  sally 
out  of  their  ambush  and  haughtily  demand  the  pass-word. 
Not  being  acquainted  with  the  pass-word,  the  tramp  would 
answer  back  in  forcible  and  even  treasonable  language.     (It 
was  in  this  way  that  I  picked  up  the  expressive  phrase  "get 
out,"  in  every  modem  tongue.)     The  hornets  would  invar- 
iably resent  any  impolite  insinuations  or  undignified  gestures, 
being  constitutionally  averse  to  impulsive  human  kind.     If 
the  tramp  happened  to  be  of  a  naturally  shiftless  character, 
and  had  left  the  gate  open  behind  him,  he  could  generally 
make  a  break  for  the  highway,  when  he  would  keep  straight 
on  till  he  began  to  feel  thirsty;  but  if  he  had  carefully  shut 
the  gate  on  coming  in  — !    But  why  recall  these  harrowing 
scenes  ?     Sufiice  it  to  say  that  none  of  these  unfortunates 
ever  dropped  me  an  invitation  to  go  to  Texas,  but  always  a 
hearty  invitation  to  try  a  climate  still  more  genial.    Taking 
pity  on  suffering  humanity,  we  hung  a  placard  over  the  door, 
solemnly  warning  all  and  sundry  to  keep  away  from  it..    This 
scarcely  mended  the  matter.    Unfortunately,  this  rear  door 
could  be  distinctly  seen  from  the  road,  and  passers-by  who 
could  not  plainly  decipher  my  chirography,  imagined  that  the 
place  was  to  let,  or  else  that  a  wayside  tavern  had  been 


.■■«»t 


l8 


Our  yisit  to  the  Country. 


opened,  and  we  were  pestered  almost  to  death  from  6  A.  M. 
till  II  P.  M. 

Without  giV'ing  official  notice,  a  colony  of  hectoring  and 
barbarian  wasps  one  day  jumped  a  claim  over  the  front  door,  — 
our  only  remaining  out-let,  except  by  way  of  the  cellar,  — 
and  this  brought  matters  to  a  crisis.  They  were  very  jealous 
of  their  rights,  and  when  Fanny  proposed  that  we  should  va- 
cate in  their  favor  and  return  to  the  city,  I  promptly  replied 
that  my  sole  object  in  life  was  to  please  her,  and  that  I  was 
calmly  waiting  till  she  should  have  had  enough  of  country 
life. 


•   •"^^  Jk^V"*   * 


^y. 


Discouraging       'ournalist. 


19 


>m  6  A.  M. 


oring  and 
nt  door,  — 
I  cellar, — 
:ry  jealous 
should  va- 
tly  replied 
that  I  was 
of  country 


DISCOURAGING  A  JOURNALIST : 

I. — AS  A   MUTE,  INGLORIOUS  MILTON. 

ii(^0  you  would  like  to  become  a  journalist,  eh?"  sur- 
O     prisedly  asked  an  editor  of  a  youth  who  had  come 
to  the  office  as  devil  a  few  years  previously,  and  had  been 
steadily  advancing  himself  ever  since. 

"  That's  my  destiny,  sir,"  replied  the  young  man  grimly. 
"  Indeed  ?  I've  seen  people  attempt  to  drive  their  destiny 
before,  and  fetch  up  in  the  asylum,  or  turn  out  a  horse-jockey. 
Destiny,  my  boy,  is  a  cruel  despot,  that  can  not  be  driven, 
nor  led,  nor  wheedled,  nor  intimidated,  nor  hoodwinked. 
Destiny  leads  a  man  on  as  the  current  carries  one  in  a 
boat  without  oars  down  an  unknown  stream,  where  you  do 
not  know  from  one  bend  to  another  what  is  before  you. 
You  may  glide  into  a  peaceful  lake,  or  ground  on  a  sunken 
snag,  or  be  dashed  over  a  frightful  cataract.  Destiny  toys 
with  a  man  as  a  mousing  cat  naively  toys  with  a  captive 
mouse.  There  is  this  great  difference,  however,  that  I  must 
point  out,  even  at  the  risk  of  spoiling  my  metaphors : 
Gliding  along  in  a  boat,  as  suggested,  would  have  a  charm 
and  an  excitement  about  it,  and  it  could  not  be  indefinitely 
prolonged ;  while  Destiny  drags  along  from  day  to  day,  like 
a  contented,  leisure-loving  snail,  sometimes  for  seventy, 
eighty,  or,  in  extreme  cases,  one  hundred  year*  with  pro- 
voking monotony,  so  that  the  only  pleasurable  emotion  there 
is,  is  in  retrospect.    You  wouldn't  like  to  glide  in  a  boat  at 


ao 


Discouraging  a  Journalist. 


the  pace  of  one  inch  per  day,  would  you  ?  Then  as  to  the 
cat  and  the  mouse  :  I  have  sometimes  seen  the  mouse  escape, 
but  I  never  saw  a  man  escape  from  Destiny.  Yet  a  man 
may  as  sensibly  yield  blindly  to  Destiny,  and  idly  be  its 
sport,  as  to  think  of  compelling  it.  I  am  a  Fatalist  myself, 
but  I  should  not  advise  any  one  else  to  worship  so  cruel  a 
god.  Depend  upon  it,  my  boy,  the  only  inanimate  gods  to 
serve  are  Industry  and  Perseverance.  They  have  been 
known  to  check-mate   Destiny." 

The  young  man  did  not  know  whether  the  editor  was 
moralizing  for  his  benefit  or  for  his  own  amusement.  ' '  Sir, ' ' 
he  said  timidly,  "may  I  show  you  some  of  my  immature 
eflfusions?" 

"  Certainly.  Li.t  never  call  them  '  effusions '—  though  I 
dare  say  'diffusiuus'  would  do — 'premature  diffusions.' 
Wind-falls  would  come  nearer  the  mark,  because  I  doubt 
whether  they  are  either  immature  or  over-ripe.  Let  me  see 
now  what  you  have  hammered  out.  —  So !  I  will  read  it 
aloud,  as  it  may  scare  away  stray  intruders. 


'"WHEN  I  WAS  YOUNG. 

'  When  I  was  young,  as  I  used  to  be, 

Full  many  a  year  ago, 
I  used  to  think  it  was  howling  fun 
To  "holler,"  and  sing,  and  swim. 

'  I  went  to  school  when  1  was  a  boy. 

And  learned  how  to  skate  and  fish ; 
I  taught  the  boys  how  to  rig  a  ship, 
The  girls  how  to  throw  a  ball. 

'  I  sharpened  pencils  for  all  the  school ; 
I  learned  how  to  shipwreck  books ; 
I  studied  fireworks  and  other  things ; 
I  learned  how  to  build  a  dam. 


l.—tAs  a  Mute,  Inglorious  Milton 

"  '  I  made  bon-fireB  anil  I  found  birds'  nettt  . 
I  inked  deaka  and  booka  with  glee ; 
I  made  acare-crowa  and  I  act  them  up, 
To  peg  at  with  atonea  and  bonea. 

'"I  had  a  dog,  and  hia  name  waa  Grim ;— 
A  dog  very  fond  of  war ; — 
He  uaed  to  bark  like  a  tongue-tied  cub 
At  teama,  and  at  crowa,  and  boya. 

"  '  I  uaed  to  aing  like  a  homesick  jay, 
And  whistle  all  out  of  tune ; 
I  used  to  laugh,  like  a  milk-maid  belle, 
At  ev'rything  that  I  said. 

*'  'I  used  to  aport,  sprawling  o'er  my  vest, 
A  chain  that  I  hoped  waa  gold ; 
I  used  to  wear  a  great  humbug  watch. 
That  never  waa  buiU  to  go. 

"  '  I  used  to  ride  on  a  grizzled  nag. 
In  those  happy  daya  of  yore; 
Hia  matie  pulled  out  and  hia  eara  ahot  off, 
His  frame  very  gaunt  and  gone. 

"  '  I  usetl  to  sail  in  a  crazy  akiff, 
A  craft  very  crank  it  was; 
Too  warped  too  sell  and  too  good  to  bum— 
The  boat  for  a  boy  like  me. 

"  '  I  used  to  hunt  with  a  rum  old  gun, 
A  primitive  weapon,  aure ; 
Too  game  to  burst  and  too  worn  to  kill— 
At  least  it  killed  me— all  but.' 


•I 


■  3 


"  I  don't  see  that  Destiny  had  anything  to  do  with  this, 
my  boy — it  was  indigestion,  or  a  'premature'  attack  of 
cerebral  jim-jams.     Now,  I  turned  out  surer-' footed'  verse 


93 


Disiouraf(ing  a  Journalist. 


at  your  age,— verse  that  would  rhyme  at  chance  intervals, 
too,— and  Destiny  only  allows  uie,  on  sufferance,  to  preside 
over  a  piratical  Democratic  newspaper,  that  is  unknown  in 
Europe,  has  no  paying  subscriliers  in  Canada  or  Mexti  -, 
and  that  will  be  forgotten  within  a  year  after  Destiny  winds 
up  my  career  and  shoves  another  man  into  my  editorial 
chair,  who  will  certainly  run  foul  of  the  sheriflf  within  one 
hundred  issues  of  the  paper.— Come,  now,  is  this  your  first 
effort  at  verse-making  ? " 

"Yes,  sir ;  it  is.     I  wrote  that  two  years  and  three  months 
ago,  when  I  should  have  been  still  a  schoolboy." 

"Quite  true,"  said  the  editor.     "  'Two  years  and  three 
months  ago! '     Well,  well!     When  you  were  still  in  the  dark 
ages  of  your  intellect,  as  it  were.     I  suppose  you  are  firmly 
persuaded  that  your  intellect  is  now  a  nineteenth  century 
one  — whereas  the  truth  is,  it  hasn't  yet  advanced  to  the 
Reformation  period.     To  return  to  your  lines,  which  are  not 
half  bad,  after  all.     I  would  advise  you  to  send  this  away,  to 
almost  any  editor  in  the  land,  not  keeping  another  copy, 
draft,  or  memo,  yourself.     Said  editor  will  fire  it  into  the 
WB-5te-basket,  with  unparliamentary  language,  and  that  will 
be  the  last  of  it.     You  see,  my  boy,  you  can  not  be  a  poet  all 
at  once,  any  more  than  you  can  be  a  mesmeri.st  or  a  banjoist. 
I  am  going  to  criticise  you  freely;  but  if  I  put  the  screws  on 
too  tight,  cry  out,  and  I  will  let  up.      Now,  if  you  were  a 
Wordsworth,  you  know,  you  wouldn't  be  so  secretive  about 
the  nationality  and  breed  of  your  childhood  pets.     To  be 
sure,  you  do  give  away  the  gender  of  both  dog  and  horse;  but 
you  don't  explain  whether  the  dog  was  a  pup  or  in  his  dotage. 
If  you  were  a  Byron,  your  dog  would  have  more  horse  sense 
and  better  morals  than  a  white  man,  and  the  '  noble  animal ' 
would  be  no  slouch  of  a  steed.     A  Mark  Twain  would  take 
us  into  his  confidence  just  far  enough  to  tell  us  that  the  dog 


l.—%/ls  a  Mute,  hinloriom  Milton, 


23 


iiU'rvaU, 
»  preside 
:nowu  in 
Mexti  1, 
tiy  winds 
editorial 
thin  one 
'oiir  first 

i  months 

nd  three 
the  dark 
re  firmly 

century 
d  to  the 
h  are  not 
away,  to 
ler  copy, 

into  the 
that  will 
a  poet  all 
banjoist. 
screws  on 
u  were  a 
ive  about 
.  To  be 
lorse;  but 
is  dotage, 
orse  sense 
e  animal ' 
ould  take 
It  the  dog 


was  lousy  and  mangy,  and  the  horse  originally  the  proi)erty 
of  a  Nebraska  half-breed.  Almost  any  one  would  up  and  tell 
which  one  of  the  school-girls  he  married,  and  what  Destiny 
has  done  for  him  now  that  he  is  older  and  wiser. — What  else 
have  you  ? ' ' 

"  Here  is  an  unfinished  poem,  sir,  that  — ." 
"There  you  go  again!  You  must  say,  'an  incomplete 
poem.'  '  The  Admiral's  La-st  Cruise;  or,  How  the  Battle  was 
Fought  and  Won,'  eh?  Your  title's  too  long;  some  compos- 
itors wouldn't  know  how  to  work  the  second  half  all  in  on 
one  line. — Let's  see  how  it  reads,  anyway:  — 


'"THE  ADMIRAL'S  LAST  CRULSK ; 

How  THK    nATTLK  WAS  FoUOHT   AND  WON. 

"'The  battered  old  Lord  Admiral, 
With  fleet  of  fifty  sail, 
Had  long  time  cruised  n'er  heaving  seas, 
And  made  his  foemeii  quail. 

"'One  day,  as  thus  he  ranged  about, 
A  man  ujkmi  the  mast  — 
Who  chewed  tobacco,  and  did  spit 
The  juice  down  thick  and  fast 

"  '  Upon  the  heads  of  those  on  deck  — 
Thus  bellowed,  "  I  do  spy 
A  craft  ^hat  is  so  far  away 
She  looks  just  like  a  fly." 

" '  With  that,  the  old  Lord  Admiral 
Did  catch  up  his  spy-glass, 
And  ran  and  swarmed  up  the  tall  mast 
As  nimbly  as  an  ass 


24  Discouraging  a  Journalist. 

" '  Which  makes  a  sudden  move  to  kick 
The  boy  who  bothers  him. 
"A  hard  fought  battle  there  will  be, 
With  loss  of  life  and  limb ; 

"  '"And  many  ships  will  swift  go  down, 
And  many  men  will  die." 
Thus  spoke  the  Lord  High  Admiral, 
When  he  the  speck  did  spy.' 


"  Is  that  as  far  as  you  could  get?    Why,  you  don't  even 
tell  us  whether  the  enemy  was  really  in  sight,  or  not.    '  Fifty 
sail,'  eh?  and  all  up-set  about  a  fly-speck  on  the  vast  ocean! 
What  yoii  want  to  do,  my  boy,  is  to  heave  some  of  your  top- 
heavy  conceit  and  ignorance  overboard,  and  strike  Destiny  for 
a  cargo  of  plain  common  sense,  with  a  glimmering  of  reason 
and  a  little  dangerous  knowledge  of  inductive  logic  thrown 
in  by  way  of  ballast.     Here  we  are  all  at  sea  as  to  whether 
the  Admiral's  foe  was  a  white  man  or  a  Chinaman ;  or  as  to 
whether  the  Admiral  ever  found  his  foe  at  all ;  or  even  as  to 
whether  the  stupid  old  fellow  would  know  his  foe  if  he  should 
meet  him  on  the  street.     Why,  any  one  would  naturally  in- 
fer that  the  Admiral  must  have  had  to  turn  to  and  lick  him- 
self out  of  his  boots,  for  want  of  a  better  foe  to  tackle,  while  the 
'fifty  sail'  stood  around  in  easy  attitudes,  and  languidly  bet 
on  how  long  it  would  take  the  old  fool  to  get  through  pom- 
melling himself.    While  your  strong  holt  seems  to  be  a  grace- 
ful facility  in  spreading  your  titles  all  over  the  page,  there  is 
a  certain  deceptiveness  about  those  titles  that  would  make  a 
subscriber  think  he  wasn't  getting  his  money's  worth  of 
tangible  facts.     A  little  more  regard  for  perspicuity  and  a 
little  less  straining  after  outside  show  would  about  even  up 
your  poetry,  though  it  runs  too  much  to  bear-garden  slang." 
"Yes.  sir  ;  but  the  poem  is  incomplete." 


^^mbmBBI 

'  /  ' 

- 

1 

r 

■    ] 

! 

/. — i/ls  a  Mute,  Inglorious  Milton. 


25 


>n't  even 
t.    '  Fifty 
.St  ocean ! 
your  top- 
estiny  for 
of  reason 
c  thrown 
i  whether 
;  or  as  to 
;ven  as  to 
he  should 
urally  in- 
lick  him- 
while  the 
juidly  bet 
ugh  pom- 
teagrace- 
e,  there  is 
d  make  a 
worth  of 
ity  and  a 
:  even  up. 
bn  slang." 


"  To  be  sure  ;  I  had  forgotten  that  important  fact.  Why 
didn't  you  remind  me  of  it  when  I  wassailing  into  your  wall- 
eyed old  admiral?  What's  the  reason,  though,  you  didn't 
wind  the  thing  up  ship-shape,  and  wipe  up  the  blood,  and 
holy-stone  the  decks,  and  clean  the  big  guns,  and  look  after 
the  wounded,  and  shut  sable  Night  over  the  scene,  and  ring 
up  the  pale,  round  moon,  and  1' Envoi  the  reader  yawning 
to  a  nightmare  sleep?" 

"  It  is  too  vulgar  to  be  spun  out  further,  sir ;  and  besides, 
I  didn't  want  to  make  it  as  long  as  a  nursery  ballad." 

"Certninlv:  you're  level-headed  there.  Better  to  cut  it 
short  and  chaotic  and  leave  the  reader  in  the  doldrums,  than 
trail  an  index  and  a  sequel  astern  and  subjoin  a  preface.  Now, 
you  leave  this  with  me,  and  I'll  trim  the  sails  a  little  differ- 
ently, and  we'll  smuggle  it  into  Saturday's  issue  and  note 
how  many  subscribers  give  us  the  shake." 

"I  am  very  much  obliged,"  said  the  young  man  feebly. 

"Don't  mention  it.  I've  seen  older  people  than  you  put 
up  with  more  abuse  for  the  sake  of  shoving  themselves  into 
print. — But  haven't  you  any  love  song^?  You're  no  poet  of 
Destiny  if  you  can't  write  that  sort  of  stuff.  Why,  your  true 
poeta  nascilur  would  rather  scribble  lovelorn  poems  than  go 
courting." 

"Well,  here's  a  four-liner,  for  an  autograph  album^though 
I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  put  it  there  yet." 

"That's  a  bad  practice.  Flee  the  insidious  little  dog's- 
eared  album  as  you  would  the  Latin  humorists. — But  still, 
there's  no  occasion  for  you  to  be  so  distressingly  frank  about 
it.  You  were  too  reserved  about  your  idiotic  dogs  and 
ponies,  and  now  you  fly  to  the  opposite  extreme.  Why,  if 
you  hadn't  told  me,  I  shouldn't  have  known  but  you  had 
written  it  in  the  album  of  your  own  sweetheart,  and  also  in 
the  albums  of  every  other  fellow' s  sweetheart.    Let' s  see  it.  — 


26 


Discouraging  a  Journalist. 


Hum  ;  just  '  Verse  for  an  Album,'  when  you  might  have 
given  it  a  heading  longer  than  the  '  pome '  itself.  Atten- 
tion ! — 

" '  Why  should  you  ask  me  for  my  name, 
When  I  would  give  you  heart  and  hand. 
And  all  I  have  at  my  command. 
You  so  have  set  my  soul  aflame.' 


"  Now,  as  you  haven't  written  it,  you  say,  in  any  importu- 
nate—or rather  unfortunate  — person's  album,  here  is  your 
golden  opportunity — don't  !  Next  year  about  this  time  you 
might  find  out  that  by  some  terrible  mistake  you  had  inad- 
vertentfy  vinXXxxi  it  in  the  wrong  young  lady's  album.— Is 
this  the  best  you  have?  Have  you  no  pastorals  or  madri- 
gals?" 

"  I  will  show  you  one  more  poem,  sir;  but  it  is  incomplete, 
too,  and  I  don't  know  what  classification  it  would  come 
under." 

"  You  seem  to  have  a  penchant  for  leaving  your  poems  at 
sixes  and  sevens.  Vulgarly  speaking,  you  bite  off  more  than 
you  can  chew.  Well,  let  me  '  review '  it  for  you ;  and  if  we 
can 't  call  it  a  sonnet,  we'll  call  it  a  lyric— So;  I  will  read  it:— 

•• '  A  SHOUT  OF  TRIUMPH. 

" '  Sing,  oh  my  heart,  in  joyous  strain, 
Sittggreat  — sing  wild,  delirious  joy! 
Thou  art  released  from  all  thy  pain, 
Delight  has  come,  with  no  alloy. 

" '  Brave  heart!  thou  manfully  didst  hope, 
Through  five  long,  weary,  bitter  years; 
With  giant  difficulties  cope. 
Though  racked  by  ceaseless,  madd'ning  fears. 


ght  have 
.     Atten- 


/. — e/fs  a  Mute,  Inglorious  Milton. 

'"Sad  days  did  but  succeed  sad  days, 
But  now,  true  heart,  all  such  are  past; 
The  glad  sun  darts  resplendent  rays, 
Thy  day  of  triumph  dawns  at  last. 


27 


' '  I'll  spread  thy  fame  from  Bast  to  West, 
This  big  round  earth  thereof  shall  sing; 
Not  through  one  century's  brief  quest, 
But  through  all  time  thy  name  shall  ring! ' 


'  importu- 
re  is  your 
s  time  you 
had  inad- 
bum. — Is 
or  madri- 

icomplete, 
tttld  come 

r  poems  at 

more  than 

and  if  we 

I  read  it: — 


in. 


"My boy,  there  does  seem  to  be  an  hiatus  somewhere  in 
this.  Is  it  unfinished  in  the  middle,  or  at  both  ends  ?  The 
last  stanza  might  be  made  impressive;  but  you  have  made  it 
simply  amusing.  I  suppose  it  doesn'  t  refer  to  yotu*  heart-disr 
ease,  but  to  some  candy-loving  sweetheart,  eh  ?  .  But  you 
must  muzzle  that  heart  of  yours,  or  put  it  under  lock  and  key, 
for  it  is  dangerous  to  let  it  go  wandering  about  at  large. 
Like  your  admiral,  it  doesn't  seem  to  have  any  clear  idea 
where  to  go  or  what  to  do  with  itself.  Seriously,  you  will 
have  to  shout  yourself  black  in  the  face  before  '  this  big, 
round  earth '  will  pay  any  attention  to  you,  or  your  heart,  or 
your  sweetheart;  or  care  a  snap  whether  her  name  is  Harriet 
Jane  or  Alice  Maude  Ethel,  You  see, '  this  big,  round  earth ' 
is  so  occupied  in  her  leisure  moments  with  the  fame  of  her 
Shakespeares,  Scotts,  and  Longfellows,  that  she  will  only 
grudgingly  countenance  a  new-comer.  She  is  notoriously 
cold  aud  tmjust  to  green  poets ;  but  this  either  puts  them  on 
their  mettle,  or  kills  them  off.  However,  it  isn't  mauy  men 
that  can't  and  won't  get  even  with  their  enemies,  when  their 
'  day  of  triumph '  does  really  come. 

"  Well,  my  boy,  I  have  kept  you  long  enough  for  one 
sitting ;  to-morrow  we  will  examine  into  your  merits  as  a 
writer  of  modem  prose.  I  will  wind  up  by  hazarding  the 
opinion  that  you  and  Destiny  may  get  there  as  poets — if  you 


a8 


Discouraging  a  Journalist. 


live— along  in  the  early  childhood  of  the  next  century— 
perhaps  while  the  centuiy  is  still  in  its  swaddling  clothes. 
During  the  exciting  Election  of  191 2  you  may  be  in  a  posi- 
tion to  realize  a  dollar  apiece  for  Campaign  songs,  or  to 
wholesale  them  at  six  for  five  dollars.  On  the  other  hand, 
you  may  die  of  chicken-pox,  or  croup,  or  some  other  infontile 
disease.    Thes^  things  often  prove  fatal  to  embryo  poets. 

•'  Come,  don't  look  sad  ;  you  may  develop  into  an  eerie 
poet,  like  Coleridge  or  Poe,  or  a  sentimental  one,  like  Tenny- 
son. Meanwhile,  you  will  have  to  go  through  a  love-affair 
that  will  shake  you  all  up  before  you  can  turn  out  anything 
marketable.  Sorrow  is  about  the  best  poetry-tonic,  and  the 
years  of  early  manhood  are  fuller  of  it  than  an  out-house  is 
of  spiders.— tSo  long." 


H 


*—  J>^ 


Grandmother's  Apple  Pies. 


29 


intury — 
clothes. 
1  a  posi- 
i;s,  or  to 
er  hand, 
infantile 
poets, 
an  eerie 
e  Tenny- 
}ve-affair 
anything 
,  and  the 
•house  is 


GRANDMOTHER'S  APPLE  PIES. 

Drmvbr  us  from  apple  pies 

Made  in  the  careless,  slipshod  way 
Of  foreign  "help,"  who  melodize 

The  atmosphere  with  roundelay 
The  while  they  slice  up  skin  and  core. 

With  apple  stems  and  other  stuff. 
With  fungous  growth  and  seeds  galore 

Thrown  in,  and  crust  supremely  tough. 

These  have  degraded  apple  pies, 

Which,  though  they  may  seem  good,  will  straight 
Rebellious  stomachs  agonize. 

Full  of  this  thought,  man  mourns  his  fate, 
And  TOWS  from  modem  pies  to  fast ; 

I  sometimes  yet  am  fain  to  cry 
For  opportunities  now  past. 

When  I  might  have  refused  such  pie. 

My  grandmother  made  apple  pies 

That  every  one  was  sure  to  call 
A  gastronomical  surprise ; 

For  they  were  never  known  to,  pall 
Upon  the  appetite.    You  knew, 

Beyond  all  doubt,  if  you  but  saw 
Her  modus  operandi  through. 

Her  pics  would  be  without  a  flaw. 

In  early  June  she  used  green  fruit 

Till  harvest  apples  had  a  chance 
To  ripen ;  and  should  robins  loot 

Her  cherries,  her  long  gun  would  glance 


■^mmfmik^ 


wfmsmm^im^ssm 


Grandmother's  Apple  Pies. 

That  way,  and  some  fine  birds  would  die. 

Her  cherry  pie»  deserved  all  praise, 
But  her  best  "holt"  was  apple  pie— 

Her  specialty,  in  modem  phrase. 

Bach  season  had  its  apple  pie ; 

The  mellow  bell-flower  held  its  own 
For  six  long  weeks,  but  she  would  try 

Bach  apple  in  the  temp'rate  zone. 
When  her  good  pies  were  served  with  cream, 

A  choice  was  hard ;  but  Northern  Spies 
She  favored  most.    Strauge  though  it  seem, 

Grandmother  seldom  ate  her  pies. 

At  Christmas-time  she  made  mince  pies 

That  were  delicious,  though  she  took 
Less  art  with  them,  and  did  not  prize 

Our  compliments — if  we  forsook 
Too  long  her  apple  pies  for  mince, 

For  turkey  or  for  good  roast  beef, 
Plum  pudding,  pumpkin  pie,  or  quince  ; 

For  such  neglect  moved  her  to  grief. 

The  New  Year's  leaf  was  always  turned 

With  apple  pie  at  mom  and  noon. 
And  when  the  springtime  months  retqraed, 

Dried  apples  filled  the  gap  tilt  June. 
Those  apple  pies  went  all  too  fast ; 

I  sometimes  yet  am  fain  to  cry 
For  opportunities  now  past, 

When  I  might  have  devoured  more  pie. 


■■Mmia^ 


Discouraging  a  Journalist. 


31 


DISCOURAGING  A  JOURNALIST: 


II. — AS  AN  UNFLBDGBD  HUMORIST. 


((  "fir  ELL,"  said  the  editor  cheerfully  next  day  to  the 
V  V  youth  who  aspired  to  be  a  journalist,  "  I  'm  in  the 
humor  to  give  you  another  sitting-on.  The  old  proverb 
says,  •  Never  put  off  till  to-morrow  what  you  can  do  to-day,' 
and  I  suppose  it  refers  to  the  bitter  as  well  as  the  sweet ;  to 
the  boy  with  a  bag  of  candy  to  eat,  and  to  the  boy  with  a 
garden  to  hoe." 

"I  have  nothing  in  the  shape  of  prose,  sir,  but  the  draft 
of  a  letter  I  wrote  the  other  night  to  an  old  chum." 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  that.  Besides,  what  you  write  for  one 
individual  reader  is  likely  to  be  a  pure  specimen  of  your 
style.  To  be  sure,  letter-writing  is  an  art,  but  it  is  as  different 
from  story  or  editorial-writing  as  playing  marbles  is  different 
from  snowballing  a  school-teacher.  You  see,  I  adapt  my 
illustrations  to  your  years  and  understanding. — Now,  then, 
hand  me  your  rough  draft,  please,  and  I  will  read  it  and  com- 
ment on  it  at  the  same  time.  Is  this  really  the  first  writing 
of  it,  or  did  you  go  over  it  again,  with  pencil  and  eraser?  " 

' '  I  touched  it  up  a  little,  sir. " 

"Good.  You  would  be  foolish  not  to  do  that.  Here 
goes:— 

" '  Mv  Dbar  Tom  : — I  have  intended  to  write  to  you  for 
ever  so  long,  but  every  time  I  have  fixed  a  day  for  the  fatal 


I.  • 


3a  Discouraging  a  Journalist. 

deed  some  person  has  inopportunely  dropped  in  and  juggled 
the  afternoon  or  evening  away  from  me.  These  Philistines 
have  been  b^Us  noires  to  »i<?— but  then,  on  the  other  hand, 
they  have  proved  a  mascot  to  you.  Not  that  my  long-de- 
layed letter  is  charged,  either  Uterally  or  figuratively,  with 
dynamite.  Neither  can  i  t  unpardonably  aflBict  its  reader  with 
grief,  nor  yet  inspirit  him ;  but  that  it  will  bore  you  is  a  fore- 
gone conclusion,  for  I  am  going  to  write  entirely  about  my- 
self.   To  equalize  things,  if  my  letter  is  tiresome,  it  shall  be 

short.' 

"  Short,  eh ?"  sneered  the  editor.  "I  never  saw  a  letter 
start  out  that  way  yet  that  wasn't  as  long  as  an  alderman's 
address.  Short?  Why,  it's  one,  three,  five,  seven  — ten 
pages  long  !  Short  ?  It  must  have  cost  double  postage  to 
send  it ;  and  if  the  mucilage  on  your  stamps  wasn't  good,  it 
will  go  wandering  about  the  country  Uke  a  Campaign  liar. 
To  resume : — 

"  '  I  was  fully  p«irsuaded  to  write  you  last  Wednesday,  be- 
cause it  was  my  birthday— but  again  one  of  your  mascots 
interfered  in  the  person  of  a  neighbor's  son.  Guileless  young 
man  !  If  I  should  address  the  term  mascot  to  him  he  would 
certainly  think  I  was  swearing  at  him.  You  kindly  asked 
about  my  birthday,  Tom.  It  comes  this  year  on  the  ad 
September.' 

'"Comes  this  year,'  eh?    That  seems  to  work  in  very 

neatly. 

"  '  I  was  delighted  with  your  racy  and  gossipy  letter.  The 
bold  unconventionality  of  your  style  is  decidedly  a  charm 
rather  than  a  drawback,  and  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  in 
writing  a  friendly  letter  to  an  old  crony  one  should  not  guard 
so  much  against  being  off-hand  as  against  being  too  precise 
and  particular.  At  any  rate,  I  enjoy  your  vivacious  letter 
every  time  I  read  it  over.' 


II.— /Is  an  Unfledged  Humorist. 


33 


' ' '  Vivacious  —  gossipy  —  racy  —  bold  unconventionality  ! ' 
Really,  now,  when  your  friend  comes  to  answer  your  letter, 
the  only  qualifying  terms  the  poor  fellow  can  hit  on  will  be 
'droll,'  and  breezy,'  and  'quaint.'  And  I  have  yet  to 
decide  that  your  letter  is  any  one  of  all  these, 

"'Truly,  as  you  say,  I  spent  a  month  this  summer  in  a 
quiet  spot,  and  events — or  rather,  the  want  of  events  —  made 
a  great  impression  on  me.     My  uncle's  farm-house  is  old, 
and  my  uncle's  family  have  their  peculiarities.    The  vener- 
able chimney  was  full  of  swallows ;  the  garden-walks  were 
burrowed  with  mice  ;  the  cellar  was  running  over  with  rats ; 
the  door-steps  were  crawling  with  ants ;   the  fences  were 
loaded  with   gorgeous  slugs ;   the  stable  was  full  of   un- 
heard-of noises ;   the  driving-shed  was  full  of  foreign  and 
domestic  tramps ;  the  air  was  full  of  noise  from  my  uncle's 
unoiled  machinery,  and  foggy  with  dust ;  and  their  patrimony 
was  alive  by  day  with  "swarming "  bees  and  melodious  by 
night  with  feline  professors  of  music.    The  dogs  slept  all 
over  the  house,  and  scratched  off  their  fleas  all  night  long  ; 
and  sometimes  I  myself  slept  next  day  till  the  sun  was  half 
seas  over.     If  anybody  had  been  annoyed  by  this  state  of 
affairs,  my  uncle  would  have  stirred  up  strife  between  the 
bees  and  the  rats,  and  have  starved  the  cats  into  an  ancestral 
relish  for  a  mouse-diet ;  he  would  occasionally  have  let  a  flea- 
tormented  dog  loose  upon  the  feline  choir ;  he  would  have 
given  me  fifty  cents  to  chop  down  the  giant  willow  that 
rasped  against  the  stable  shingles  and  to  liberate  the  bumble- 
bees that  flopped  inside  against  its  panes  of  glass ;  and  he 
would  have  placarded  the  driving-shed  to  the  effect  that  a 
beggar  died  there  the  previous  forenoon  of  yellow  fev«ir.' 

"Now  you  are  humping  yourself,  my  boy!  The  great 
mistake  you  make  is  to  open  fire  in  a  slip-shod  way.  Start 
with  a  laugh  and  wind  up  with  a  joke ;  but  work  in  your 


34 


Discouraging  a  Journalist. 


twaddle,  if  you  must  have  it,  when  you  are  '  half  seas  over.' 
'"A  neighbor  of  my  uncle's  isn't  feeling  first-rate  this 
summer.  He  fell  out  wilh  a  home-made  ladder  in  his  grand- 
son's leaky  bam,  and  had  a  rough-and-tumble  set-to  with  an 
insulted  rooster  in  mid-air  and  with  half  a  pound  of  new 
shingle  nails  on  the  floor;  and  he  swallowed  four  of  his 
sharpest  teeth;  and  ruptured  his  left  thumb;  and  hamstrung 
the  muscles  hitching  his  left  arm  to  his  shoulder-socket;  and 
scared  four  out  of  the  five  children  looking  on  into  St.  Vitus' 
dances;  and  startled  a  seven-year-old  mare  into  a  circus  per- 
formance that  destroyed  eighty  cents'  worth  of  harness;  and 
finally  the  injured  man  hobbled  himself  home  in  a  "dead 
dream,"  not  knowing  afterwards  whether  became  through 
the  carriage  gate,  or  crawled  through  a  gap  in  the  fence.' 

"  My  dear  boy,  you  are  like  all  the  rest  of  us  in  one  impor- 
tant respect:  you  can' t  do  good  execution  till  you  get  warmed 
up  to  your  work.  You  must  have  sweated  out  a  couple  of 
neck-ties  in  evolving  this.  —  Or  did  you  catch  onto  it  all  with- 
out an  effort?" 

"  Without  an  effort,  sir." 

"Good!  I  begin  to  feel  encouraged.  All  the  same,  I 'm 
glad  there  isn't  much  more. — '  The  newsmongers  don't  dis- 
gorge here  oftener  than  once  a  fortnight,  so  I  can't  give  you 
much  news.  Mrs.  Hildreth  and  all  the  pretty  little  children 
came  scattering  around  one  day,  about  three  months  ago. 
Master  Jimmy  went  over  to  HoUoways',  to  see  what  a  spring 
fire  of  HoUowayian  rubbish  smelt  like,  and  presently  came 
blubbering  back,  with  the  downy  hide  all  singed  off  his 
manly  face.  He  looked  like  a  spring  chicken  that  had  had  all 
its  pinfeathers  scorched  off  with  a  vengeance.  And  we  got 
off  without  hearing  much  of  what  "they  say."  Jimmy  is 
of  a  most  inquisitive  turn  of  mind.  Just  the  other  day  I 
happened  to  be  at  the  depot,  when  the  family  party  were 


la 
fii 

pi 
tc 

B 

ri 

ei 

t( 

ft 

P 

q 

d 
l 

0 

e 
s 

c 
t 

1 


■yr-^. 


II.— As  an  Unfledged  Humorist. 


S5 


s  over, 
tte  this 
>  grand- 
with  an 
of  new 
of  his 
Dstrung 
:et;  and 
.  Vitus' 
cus  per- 
!ss;  and 
L  "dead 
through 
nee.' 
;  impor- 
warmed 
ouple  of 
ill  with- 


me,  I  'm 
m't  dis- 
pve  you 
children 
:lis  ago. 
a  spring 
tlycame  ^ 
i  off  his 
1  had  all 
i  we  got 
immy  is 
;r  day  I 
rty  were 


laying  in  ambush  for  a  mixed.  Jimmy  was  determined  to 
find  out  whether  the  rails  are  fastened  together  with  hair- 
pins or  carpet-tacks;  so  he  smuggled  himself  up  the  platform 
to  the  freight-shed,  and  then  jumped  down  to  the  track. 
Before  he  was  found  the  mixed  came  grinding  along,  and 
rasped  a  whole  pocketful  of  ornamental  buttons  off  his  richly 
embroidered  little  coat.  I  am  sure  everybody  was  anxious 
to  find  out  what  system  of  punishment  the  boy's  father 
favors,  but  he  was  mean  enough  not  to  give  it  away.  The 
poor  child  was  hustled  into  the  car  with  reckless  haste  and 
quite  unnecessary  assistance,  and  that  is  all  I  know  about  it." 

"  I  don't  like  the  chipper  way  you  talk  about  little  chil- 
dren and  big  men  having  their  necks  all  but  broken.  It 
makes  a  writer  out  a  heathen,  or  exposes  him  as  a  green- 
horn. Another  thing  you  want  to  do  is  to  weed  out  some 
of  your  adjectives.  I  don't  suppose  you  have  more  than 
eight  hundred  in  stock,  and  at  this  rate  your  supply  would 
soon  be  exhausted.     Now  to  conclude :  — 

•"  I  can  now  calmly  proceed  to  fire  my  empty  inkbottles 
out  of  the  window,  and  distribute  some  toil-worn  pens  among 
my  unobtrusive  relations.  I  might  have  said  importunate, 
but  my  relations  are  not  importunate. 

"  'Yours  sincerely,  Heinrich.' 

' '  •  Hen — Hannibal  —  Hannah  ! '  What  have  you  signed 
yourself,  young  man  ?  " 

"^ Heinrich,  sir— German  for  Henry." 

"  I  dare  say  it  is,  my  boy.  I  am  glad  you  are  so  com- 
pletely master  of  the  German  language ;  but  il  your  letter 
should  hang  fire  and  not  reach  its  destination,  you  will  some 
day  get  it  back  in  an  official  envelope  fix>m  the  dead-letter 
office,  addressed  to  '  Mrs.  or  Miss  Hannah  ! '  Then  perhaps 
you  will  be  sorry  that  you  hadn't  signed  your  full  name  in 
English,  like  a  white  man." 


36 


Discouraging  a  Journalist. 


"Well,  may  I  ask  what  your  verdict  i»,  sir?" 

"  Can  you  shoot  a  gun  ?  " 

Visions  of  a  turkey  hunt  with  the  astonished  and  delighted 
editor  flashed  through  the  young  man's  mind.  His  genius 
had  been  recognized  at  last  I  ' '  You  are  too  kind  ! "  he  cried, 
grasping  the  editor's  hand.  "I  can  shoot,  and  should  be 
delighted  to  go." 

"Well,  then,"  calmly  continued  the  editor,  "I  would 
advise  you  to  tear  off  the  first  part  of  your  draft  and  take  it 
along  for  wadding,  next  time  you  feel  impelled  to  shoot.  As 
for  the  rest  of  it,  make  a  nice  little  sketch  of  it,  and  almost 
any  editor  will  accept  it ;  but  he  won't  pay  you  for  it, 
because  Rhadamanthus  isn't  built  that  way. 

"But  what's  the  matter  with  your  relations,  that  you 
ahould  insist  on  working  off  your  damaged  pens  on  them  ? 
Didn't  they  buy  you  jack-knives  or  take  you  to  the  circus 
when  you  were  young  —  that  is,  younger  than  you  are  now  ? 
Or  did  they  vaccinate  you  too  often?  You  needn't  let 
on  but  that  your  ancestors  came  over  with  Lief  Ericson, 
and  that  your  nearest  relatives  to-day  are  living  a  luxurious 
life  in  the  most  exclusive  penitentiaries  in  the  West." 

"  Then  you  really  think  my  prose  better  than  my  verse  ?  " 

"Decidedly.  Writing  a  letter,  with  your  heart  in  it,  is 
head-work ;  writing  a  pretty  little  story,  loaded  up  to  the 
muzzle  with  good  precepts  and  pointing  a  solemn  moral, 
€ven  if  read  crosswise,  like  a  riddle,  is  brain-work  ;  writing 
a  rattling  good  humorous  item  is  mind-work ;  but  writing 
clear-cut  verse,  that  the  matter-of-fact  man  and  the  cultured 
man  alike  will  read  with  keen  relish,  and  then  file  away  in 
a  disused  cigar-box  for  future  enjoyment — that  is  soul- work. 

"Yes,  my  boy;  you  must  quit  flirting  with  the  Muses, 
for  every  one  of  them,  including  Thalia,  will  give  you  the 


n 

tl 

tl 

j< 
a 

f( 

> 

t 


//.— //s  an  Unfledfiied  Htmorist. 


37 


mitten.  vStrike  up  a  friendship  with  the  old  man,  Ap<iHo  ; 
thfn,  if  you  will  curry-comb  that  spavined  old  nag  of  yours 
that  we  read  about  yesterday,  and  expose  him  where  some 
journalistic  cow-boy  can  stampede  him  away  for  good  and 
all,  Apollo  may  some  day  take  you  up  behind  him  on  Pegasus 
for  a  little  turn,  when  the  atmosphere  seems  fairly  clear. 
You  mustn'^t  expect  the  careful  old  fellow  to  trust  you  alone 
with  his  steed  yet  awhile.  I  shouldn't  like  to  see  vou  break 
your  neck,  you  know.     Meanwhile,  there's  lots  of  hard  work 

before  you. 

'*  Now,  if  any  unshaven  poet  comes  around  this  afternoon, 
tell  him  it's  a  cold  day  for  bards  and  a  good  one  for  barbers, 
and  persuade  him  to  bring  his  little  manuscript  around  next 
week." 

"And  Destiny,  sir?" 

"  Won't  bother  you,  if  you  stick.to  prose." 

••  Heinrich"  did  not  commit  suicide  in  despair  ;  he  wrote 
more  picturesque  letters  to  his  chums,  telling  them  that  hi 
had  "  captured  "  the  editor. 


T^ 


m^)^' 


l'*T^ 


i^iffS'if^ra'^"'"*"  ■"' 


38 


The  Musical  'Boarding-House. 


■*?'■ 


THE  MUSICAL  BOARDING-HOUSE. 


Comb  and  list  the  sad  tale  of  a  youth  bowed  in  grief, 

Who  had  sought  in  a  "smart"  boarding-house  a  retreat; 
Where  the  larder  was  "  short"  on  dessert  and  fresh  meat, 

But  was  "  long  "  on  cold  pie,  barley  soup,  and  corned  beef; 
While  the  Uble  was  set  with  a  lavish  array 
Of  old  glassware,  that  erst  must  have  met  with  foul  play. 

It  oft  chanced  the  dessert  was  served  first  at  this  house. 
If  '  twas  thought  it  might  blunt  a  keen  appetite's  edge, 
As  at  times  it  had  done,  till  the  boarders  made  pledge 

To  fight  shy  of  all  pie  that  might  savor  of  mouse. 

But  one  good  thing  accompanied  this  rare  bill  of  fare — 
'  Twas  the  piquant  remarks  of  a  blonde  pensionnaire. 

As  still  ev'ning  came  on  the  new  boarder  retired 
To  his  lone  attic  room,  when  a  tap  at  his  door. 
And  from  regions  below  a  loud-echoing  roar, 

Made  him  ope,  to  be  told  that  his  hostess  desired 
His  attendance  below,  at  a  musical  treat. 
And  they  hoped  he  would  kindly  applaud  with  his  feet, 

If  he  could  do  no  more ;  but  perhaps  he  could  sing. 
Down  he  went  to  the  parlor,  to  find  the  mixed  crowd 
Of  the  resident  beauty  and  youth,  who  were  loud 

In  their  honest  belief  they  could  make  rafters  ring— 
And  a  tortured  piano  plain  evidence  gave 
If  its  strings  but  held  out,  it  would  be  a  close  shave. 

Over  this  did  preside  a  long-armed  dibutanU, 

Who  could  "claw  the  cold  ivory"  quite  on  a  par 
With  a  musical  chump,  with  a  basswood  guitar. 


Ti|!;»n||,»il.'<M.i!l]l|»j 


eat; 
leat, 

•lay. 


ieet, 


The  Musical  'Boarding-House.  39 

(Who'd  the  paws  of  a  bear  and  the  face  of  an  ant) 

Which  had  been  tinkered  at  with  some  rich-colored  glue, 
And  then  varnished  up  spruce  in  a  deep  crimson  hue. 

He  declined  them  his  voice,  and  he  listened  with  pain 
To  the  shrill  alto  trill  of  the  blonde  pensionnaire 
And  the  cannon-like  boom  of  the  bass-voiced  young  heir. 

In  the  intervals  came  a  soft,  bird-like  refrain 

From  a  patent  cat-call,  which  the  small  boy  would  blow ; 
While  a  strong  man  upsUirs  loudly  mouthed  "Ostler  Joe." 

From  this  chic  charivari  he  incontinent  strayed 

To  the  kitchen's  repose,  where  faint  sounds  could  pursue. 
Here  he  said  to  his  host,  "Are  you  musical,  too? " 

And  "the boss"  straight  whiw)ed  out  a  mouth-organ  and  played. 
But  a  choice  ripertoire  was  all  given  more  deft 
Than  the  strains  of  hand-organ  laments  he  had  left. 

There  seemed  one  quiet  room,  at  whose  door  he  soft  Upped. 
Here  there  lodged  a  young  minstrel,  who  made  haste  to  say, 
"  I  just  throw  in  a  handful  of  chords  when  I  play  : 

I  teach  music  at  times,  when  I  'm  laid  off  or  strapped ; 
And  you'd  find  (here  he  keyed  up  an  old  violin) 
That  my  terms  are  dirt  cheap,  with  voice  'culchur'  thrown  in." 

Then  a  weird,  demoniacal,  harsh-blended  shout 

Floated  in  from  the  rear,  and  he  saw  old  dog  Tray, 
Where  he  bayed  at  the  moon  in  his  querulous  way. 

While  old  Pete  and  Melissa  were  yowling  it  out ; 

And  the  sufierer  straightway  skipped  up  to  his  room, 
To  run  foul  of  a  wretch  who  do^e-tA  in  the  gloom. 

Inspiration  from  Music  he  life-long  had  drunk. 

And  it  seemed  here  Euterpe,  his  goddess,  was  dead.— 
Soon  the  hall  door  banged  loud  — the  new  boarder  had  fted ; 

And  the  landlady  smiled,  as  she  locked  up  his  trunk, 
"  He  will  get  '  Hail  Columbia '  when  this  thing  goes. 
And  his  bill  — when  he'll  warble  what  few  notes  he  knows !  " 


40 


How  Peter  Shuffled  Off. 


HOW  PETER  SHUFFLED  OFF. 


Old  Pbtbr  was  a  lazy  cat, 
That  with  old  age  had  grown  so  fat 
He  never  would  bestir  himself 
To  fight  stray  rats  upon  the  shelf, 
But  dozed  before  the  fire  all  day, 
Or  calmly  watched  the  mice  at  play. 
His  motto  was,  "  My  work  is  done ; 
I've  killed  bad  dogs,  and  had  great  fun ; 
Now,  while  this  world  keeps  on  its  feet. 
These  folks  must  care  for  good  old  Pete." 

And  Peter's  rights  wen>  all  supreir  e , 
'Twas  his  prerogative  to  dream 
Of  vict'ries  past,  of  future  feasts, 
And  pique  himself  tlie  king  of  beasts. 
Though  he  would  oft  get  into  scrapes. 
And  of  mince  pies  make  ducks  and  drakes ; 
Would  gormandize  rich  cream  galore. 
And  paw  good  butter  o'er  the  floor ; 
Would  suck  fresh  eggs  in  ev'ry  nest ; 
Would  cuff  small  pups  and  break  their  rest ; 
Allow  no  cats  or  dogs  a  home, 
But  force  them  all  as  tramps  to  roam 
Wide  his  dominions,  or  wage  war 
Till  they  acknowledged  him  as  Thor ; 
And  e'en  when  strangers  graced  the  board, 
If  so  disposed  would  come  my  lord, 
And  'mid  rich  viands  run  amuck — 
Still  would  the  host  say,  " JustW  luck  1 " 

No  matter  what  the  mischief  was, 
Old  Peter  never  had  a  cause 
Of  grievance,  for  he  broke  no  laws, 


How  Peter  Shuffled  Off. 

And  ne'er  was  flung  upon  hi»  paws, 
As  most  bad  pussies  are,  you  know, 
When  with  a  twirl  they  are  let  go, 
And  thus  are  giv'n  a  chance  to  light 
Upon  their  feet,  from  dizxy  height. 
Ah,  Peter  was  a  priv'leged  cat. 
Who  never  heard  bad  words,  like  "  scat ! " 
Who  never  lost  one  of  the  nine 
Cat-lives  the  vulgar  say  enshrine 
All  mortal  felines'  fate,— or  most,— 
Ere  one  poor  cat  gives  up  the  ghost. 

But  Peter  one  day  went  too  far 
In  acting  out  the  role  of  Tsar, 
And  brought  about  a  family  jar 
That  apogecd  his  guiding-sUr. 
Bold  Peter  undertook  to  make 
Off  baby  Joe's  baptismal  cake 
A  light  ddjeAner- and  was  caught 
By  baby's  pa,  who  straightway  bronght. 
By  his  fierce  and  avenging  cdes. 
And  Peter's  yowls  of  pained  sm-prise, 
The  household  flocking  to  the  room. 
Straight  "  Margit"  Ann  snatched  up  a  broom 
And  overturned  a  marble  clock. 
Which  gave  poor  Peter's  nfr«;TS  a  shock. 
For  it  fell  plump  upon  his  tail. 
And  he  set  up  the  injured  wail 
Of  those  that  sudden  feel  the  bnjnt 
Of  punishment  for  sore  afiront. 

While  Sarah  Jane  joined  with  his  foes. 
Stout  bow-legged  Tim  ran  for  the  hose ; 
And  George  Erastus  cried  out  "Scat!" 
When  Peter  humped  his  back  and  spat 
E'en  baby's  ma  expressed  no  fear 
To  cut  short  poor  old  Pete's  career ; 
Though  he,  perhaps,  lunched  off  the  cake 
Just  like  themselves,  for  baby's  sake. 
But  baby's  pa  said  H  was  time. 
When  Peter's  gore  wiped  out  his  crime, 


41 


4» 


How  Peter  Shuffled  Off. 


To  speculate  if  they  did  right 
His  sudden  death  to  expedite. 

In  wrathful  gloom  Pete  turned  to  flee. 
And  got  scared  up  an  apple-tree. 
Then  'Rastus  took  a  fish-pole  new, 
And  Bill's  fire-crackers  tied  thereto, 
And,  lighted,  thrust  this  up  to  where 
Indignant  Peter  swung  in  air. 
Still  bow-legged  Tim  hard  plyed  the  hose, 
Which,  while  it  drenched  Pete's  furry  clothes. 
Damped  Bill's  fireworks,  and  marred  that  fun. 
Till  baby's  pa  came  with  his  gun. 
At  the  first  bang  Pete  fetched  a  bound. 
That  brought  him  to  unsafer  ground ; 
For  he  lit  near  a  hornet's  nest. 
And  thence  there  sallied  forth,  with  zest, 
The  hornet  band,  armed  to  the  teeth, 
And  anxious,  each  one,  to  bequeath 
On  cat  or  men  a  stinging  blow, 
So  that  they  all  should  wailing  go ; 
And  pa  and  'Rastus,  Tim  and  Bill, 
And  wounded  Pete,  all  got  their  fill. 

The  hornets  these  bad  men  did  rout,    . 
But  Peter  stayed  to  fight  it  out; 
For  he  was  hufiied  and  wounded  sore. 
And  scandalized  at  those  who  bore 
Such  malice  to  a  feline  king 
In  his  hoar  age.     What  was  the  sting 
Of  bees,  to  human  love  denied  ? 
So,  like  a  stoic,  Peter  died ; 
With  eyes  glazed  on  the  setting  sun, 
He  painful  lest  nine  lives  in  one. 

It  might  have  been  his  shocking  fnght, 
(So  ran  the  verdict)  or  the  bright 
Flash  of  the  fireworks,  or  the  gun, 
The  hornets'  sting,  the  frenzied  run 
To  shelter,  or  some  old-time  ache. 
They  did  not  hint  it  was  the  cake ! 
Nor  yet  heart-break  at  Fortune's  blast. 


How  Peter  Shuffled  Off. 

So  Peter  shuffled  off  at  last, 
And  papa  said,  "  Now  will  come  Peace ! " 
But,  to  make  sure  of  bis  decease, 
He  buried  Pete  clean  out  of  sight. 
Where  felines  o'er  his  grave  may  fight. 
Then,  as  he  bathed  his  smarting  skin. 
His  thoughts  in  this  wise  seemed  to  spin 
'"Man's  inhumanity  to  man' 
I  clearly  see  is  Nature's  plan : 
These  vicious  hornets  came  with  scoff 
To  help  poor  Peter  shuffle  off ! " 

He  could  not  think  himself  at  fault. 
Because  man's  conscience  here  is  halt ! 


43 


44 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmer. 


ha 
fai 


HART  GILBERT  PALMER 

Revisits  His  Nativb  Place  in  the  R6le  of  a  Great 

Man. 

THE  STORY  AS  PRANKI,Y    TOLD  TO  HIS   PRIBNDS. 


a  "V/E-S,  it  was  five  years  since  I  had  shaken  the  dust  of 
1  Center  Hill  off  my  feet,  and  in  those  five  years  I  had 
become  generally  known  from  Bangor  to  Seattle  ;  for,  besides 
my  strike  in  the  San  Juan  country,  I  had  contrived,  in  various 
ways,  to  lug  myself  into  notoriety.  In  the  first  place,  I  had 
named  and  built  two  mining  towns  ;  I  had  built  a  railroad  ; 
I  had  written  two  or  three  wild,  frontier,  two-volume  books, 
which  people  read  for  the  same  unfathomable  reason  that 
they  take  patent  medicine  for  old  age.  As  with  all  authors, 
monopolists,  and  western  millionaires,  I  was  universally 
known  by  the  name  of  '  Palmer.' 

' '  It  was  an  historical  fact  that  I  was  notorious  —  in  a  .word, 
a  marked  man.     I  one  day  imagined  that  the  simple  folk  I 


re 

lai 

m 

th 

m 

w 

e: 

w 

e! 

n 

n 

f< 

a 

e 

r 

a 

a 

c 

y 
I 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmer. 


45 


A  Great 


DS. 


the  dust  of 
yrears  I  had 
for,  besides 
,  hi  various 
tlace,  I  had 
a  railroad ; 
ime  books, 
eason  that 
ill  authors, 
universally 

-  in  a  .word, 
nple  folk  I 


had  been  brought  up  amongst  would  mistake  notoriety  for 
fame  and  I  determined  to  visit  my  old  home  to  enjoy  it. 

"  it  was  early  in  beautiful  June,  therefore,  that  I  set  out  to 
revisit  my  native  place,  the  obscure  little  Pennsylvania  vil- 
lage known  as  Center  Hill.    I  was  perfectly  well  awate  that 
my  fame  had  penetrated  to  this  remote  hamlet  — in  fact,  at 
the  outset  of  my  career  I  had  taken  care  to  apprise  them  of 
my  triumphs:   •    ^  curiosity  or  envy,  and  above  all,  their 
weekly  pape.     '.ad  kept  them  cognizant  of  all  my  brilliant 
exploits.     But  for  four  long  years  I  had  had  no  intercourse 
with  the  Center  Hillites,  which,  I  well  knew,  was  the  bitter- 
est way  I  could  take  to  revenge  myself  on  them  for  the  studied 
neglect  they  had  shown  *me  when  I  lived  among  them.     (I 
may  here  remark  parenthetically  that  the  news  of  the  goodly 
fortune  my  father  had  unexpectedly  bequeathed  me,  shortly 
after  the  appearance  of  my  first  book,  was  common  gossip 
everywhere,  and  contributed,  more  than  anything  else,  to 
raise  my  estimation  in  the  minds  of  the  money-loving  people 
at  C     There  were  many  wild  rumors  afloat  about  me  then, 
and  those  credulous  villagers  believed  my  fortune  a  princely 

one.)  ,        , 

"I  repeat  that  I  visited  my  native  village;  and  the  ad- 
vent of  a  man  known  to  fame,  a  reputed  millionaire,  and  a 
returned  native,  all  in  one  pompous  individual,  created  a 
great  furore.  The  newspapers  had  warned  them  of  my  com- 
ing, and  a  dark  crowd  of  people  (for  it  was  at  night)  swarmed 
about  the  depot  platform,  crowding  one  another,  and  whis- 
pering, 'Yes,  that's  him ;  that's  him ;  I  wonder  if  he  will 

know  »«^.'  .!.•     » 

"So   ' him •  wasn't  welcomed  by  a  brass  band,  as    him 
had  half  expected  to  be.    I  didn't  stop  to  know  many  of 
them,  except  a  few  important  personages,  who  thrust  them- 


,-» 


46 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmer. 


selves  directly  in  my  way,  and  a  few  modest  fHends,  who 
kept  in  the  background,  but  rode  up  to  the  hotel  and  went 
to  bed.  The  next  day  was  Saturday,  which  I  spent  indoors, 
writing  letters  and  giving  my  apartments  a  ship-shape  ap- 
pearance. 

"Sunday  evening  I  went  to  church,  bright  and  early ;  to 
the  Episcopal  church,  as  had  been  my  wont  aforetime.  The 
church  was  better  filled  than  of  old,  I  noticed ;  and  also  that 
a  goodly  number  of  Methodists  ond  Presbyterians  seemed  to 
have  been  converted  from  their  old-time  belief.  When  I 
came  to  leave  that  church  after  the  services  were  over,  I 
found  the  doorway  absolutely  blocked  with  young  ladies. 
(At  least,  some  of  them  were  young,  and  some  of  them  had 
passed  for  young  five  years  before.)  I  struggled  past  them 
and  slunk  off,  feeling,  somehow,  that  I  had  grossly  insulted 
a  great  many  very  respectable  people.  What  were  my  feel- 
ings when  I  reasoned  it  out  that  that  goodly  congregation 
had  assembled  to  see  which  young  lady  I  should  pilot  safe 
home  from  church  !  Such  is  fame  —  and  fortune !  It 
seemed  to  be  taken  for  granted  that  as  I  was  still  a  bachelor, 
I  had  returned  for  the  express  purpose  of  marrying  some  one 
of  the  incomparable  spinsters  of  Center  Hill.  This  should 
have  occurred  to  me,  being  a  man  of  the  world.  Who 
would  have  thought  me  such  an  innocent  ? 

"That  week  the  campaign  was  opened,  and  a  reign  of 
terror  was  inaugurated.  I  was  invited  here  and  there  and 
everywhere ;  to  socials,  fishing-parties  (and  there  were  no 
fish  to  be  caught),  garden-parties,  picnics  (and  it  was  early 
for  picnics,  too,  in  that  primitive  place),  and  I  know  not 
what.  I  was  hounded  to  death  to  contribute  to  undeserv- 
ing charities ;  when,  in  my  own  heart,  I  saw  plainly  that 
they  should  appeal  to  the  shop-keepers,  the  baker,  and  the 


liv 
ha 
bn 
m) 
oil 
an 
ht 
th 

cl 
ui 
m 
u 
ic 
n 
n 
P 

V 

b 
t 
c 


IL 


__!.,JU..       "   '•     -t 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmer. 


47 


lends,  who 

and  went 

at  indoors, 

■shape  ap- 

.  early;  to 
ime.  The 
d  also  that 
seemed  to 
When  I 
re  over,  I 
ng  ladies, 
them  had 
past  them 
ly  insulted 
re  my  feel- 
ngregation 
1  pilot  safe 
tune !  It 
X  bachelor, 
g  some  one 
bis  should 
rid.     Who 

a  reign  of 

there  and 

■e  were  no 

t  was  early 

know  not 

undeserv- 

lainly  that 

er,  and  the 


livery-stable  man  ;  for  all  these  did  such  a  business  as  they 
had  never  done  before  :  in  fish-hooks  :  canned  picnic-meats ; 
bread  and  buns  and  confectionery ;  livery  outfits ;  brand-new 
market-baskets ;  paint  and  putty  and  wall-paper ;  and  coal- 
oil  •  and  strawberries ;  and  aesthetic  note-paper  and  envelopes ; 
and  bewitching  summer  garments ;  and  brass  ornaments  for 
hats ;  and  boots  and  gloves  and  parasols  and  lace  collars, 
that  were  all  painful  in  their  newness. 

"I  happened  to  mention  that  I  wished  to  select  a  few 
characters  for  a  novel  I  contemplated  writing.     I  always  was 
unlucky,  anyhow;  but  in  saying  that  I  deliberately  laid 
myself  open  to  all  sorts  of  unpleasantnesses.    After  I  had 
unwittingly  given  offence  to  one  young  lady,  she  took  occas- 
ion to  remark  that,  for  her  part,  she  never  did  see  anything 
really  good  in  my  writings  ;  and  that  my  book,  'The  Com- 
mandery  Lode,'  was  perfectly  ridiculous,  and  not  to  be  wra- 
pared  with  a  New  York  Trash  romance  of  that  name.     This 
was  said  'behind  my  back.'   it  is  tiue;  but  so  very  close 
behind  my  back  that  it  required  no  mental  effort,  no  prac- 
ticed ear.  to  overhear  it.     However,  I  had  survived  other 
criticisms,  and  I  bore  up  under  that. 

"One  week  after  my  arrival  I  was  at  a  social  gathering, 
at  a  house  whose  doors  were  forbidden  me  in  my  obscure 
and  lonely  youth.  I  went  under  protest,  but  with  the  gnm 
resolve  of  bagging  some  valuable  notes,  that  might  be  filed 
away  for  futme  use.  During  the  course  of  the  evemng,  a 
youth  whom  I  had  always  liked  as  a  boy  gravely  asked  me 
if  I  knew  what  the  Pnnceburg  Review  had  to  say  about  me. 
'Yes  •  chimed  in  a  score  of  eager  young  voices,  'and  the 
Center  Hill  ReporUr,  and  the  Princeburg  Age,  and  the 
Dragonsburg  Defender.  Oh.  but  of  course  you  do  know, 
they  added  confidently.     Center  Hill  had  so  improved  in 


'^■p 


I 


48 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmer. 


1 


five  years  that  it  now  had  an  exponent  of  its  own.  The 
Princeburg  papers  were  old  sheets,  of  some  pretentiousness 
and  very  much  complacency,  that  were  always  fighting 
each  other  like  quarrelsome  dogs.  No,  I  was  not  aware,  I 
said,  that  any  of  these  papers  had  anything  special  to  say 
about  me.  Straightway  the  heir  of  that  house  darted  out 
of  the  room,  to  come  back  with  an  armful  of  newspapers, 
when  he  began  looking  for  the  numbers  that  contained 
those  blood-curdling  remarks  about  myself.  I  instantly  per- 
ceived that  by  taking  prompt  and  vigorous  measures  I 
could  throw  cold  water,  so  to  speak,  on  his  design,  and 
impress  my  greatness  upon  every  member  of  that  assemblage. 
So  I  begged  him  not  to  put  himself  to  so  much  trouble  on 
my  account,  for  I  never  could  spare  either  time  or  patience 
to  get  at  the  pith  and  marrow  of  what  local  papers  have  to 
say.  The  poor  boy's  countenance  fell ;  but  the  water  wasn't 
cold  enough,  it  seems,  for  he  fumbled  among  those  Reviews, 
Reporters,  Ages,  and  what  not,  more  excitedly  than  ever. 
Then  the  young  lady  who  never  could  see  any  good  points 
in  my  books,  for  her  part,  observed,  sotto  voce,  '  There  are 
some  things  anything  but  complimentary  in  them.'  But 
any  further  remarks  from  her  were  drowned  by  a  chorus  of 
voices,  saying, — well,  saying  what  amounted  to  this  :  The 
papers  gave  an  account  of  my  early  struggles  ;  of  how  I  was 
respected  and  beloved  by  my  old  and  true  friends  in  all  that 
section ;  of  how  I  always  made  friends,  right  and  left ;  of 
how  greatly  I  was  regarded  in  my  youth,  when  compara- 
tively obscure ;  of  my  colossal  wealth  to-day ;  and  so  on, 
ad  nauseam.  (I  notice  my  present  auditors  smile ;  I  wish 
they  could  have  seen  me  smile  then.)  Now,  why  should  I 
want  to  wade  through  such  stufiF  and  nonsense  as  that  ?  I 
had  soared  to  such  a  pinnacle  of  glory  that  the  maunderings 


" "",  ■■-  L^''^^*!BlWW'y*^ 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmer. 


49 


iwn.  The 
ntiousness 
s  fighting 
t  aware,  I 
cial  to  say 
darted  out 
:wspapers, 
contained 
tantly  per- 
aeasures  I 
:sign,  and 
isemblage. 
trouble  on 
>r  patience 
:rs  have  to 
iter  wasn't 
e  Reviews, 
than  ever, 
ood  points 
There  are 
em.'  But 
I  chorus  of 
;his :  The 
how  I  was 
in  all  that 
id  left;  of 

COMPARA- 

md  so  on, 
le ;  I  wish 
f  should  I 
is  that  ?  I 
aunderings 


ofcountry  — or  rather  village  —  newspapers  had  neither  an 
inspiriting,  nor  yet  a  depressing,  ellect  upon  me.  I  was  per- 
fectly well  aware  that  little  local  journals  have  a  trick  of 
lauding  well-known  people,  with  a  view  to  furthering  their 
own  ends.  I  was  aware  that  all  this  cheap  flattery  would, 
if  I  suffered  myself  to  be  influenced  by  it,  lead  up  to  a 
demand  for  an  article  from  my  pen  —  or  an  interview.  I  was 
aware,  also,  that  if  I  turned  a  deaf  ea^  to  these  noisy  nui- 
sances, or  that  if  I  pleaded  that  I  didn't  bring  any  pen  with 
me,  their  praises  would  give  place  to  defamations,  and  they 
would  spill  venom  on  me,  without  mercy. 

"But  I  hadn't  traveled  fifteen  hundred  miles  to  wade 
through  the  columns  of  their  local  weeklies.  So  I  said, 
'My  dear  boy,  be  it  for  good  or  for  evil,  my  reputation  is 
established— for  this  season,  anyway.  Please  do  not  bore 
us  to-night  with  any  cuUings  from  those  oracular  weekhes. 
There  are  people  who  try  to  make  life  a  burden  by  mailing 
me  influential  newspapers,  with  marked  items  in  them  about 
myself;  but  I  generally  burn  them  at  once,  without  even 
preserving  the  valuable  receipts  they  contain.on  domestic  and 
other  affairs.  I  am  proud  to  be  able  to  say,  however,  that 
it  is  ten  years  since  any  person  has  troubled  me  with  either 
a  penny  valentine  or  a  local  weekly  paper.  It  is  not  often  I 
make  a  speech,  but  I  'm  afraid  this  is  one,  and  I  hope  you 

will  forgive  me  for  it.*  ..     ,        ,, 

"  Now,  that  boy  was  well  brought  up ;  exceedingly  well. 
He  needed  no  further  remonstrances  from  me,  but  hied  him 
away  with  his  budget  of  weeklies.  I  am  sorry  he  didn't 
appear  again  that  evening ;  very  sorry.  His  mamma  should 
have  vented  her  anger  on  me,  and  not  on  him  ;  for  I  must 
say  that  I  had  been  grossly  impolite  —  abusive,  even.  I 
reasoned  at  the  time  that  all  officious  attention  to  me  would 


50 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmer. 


at  once  cease  ;  that  I  should  be  regarded  a»  no  better  than  a 
bear ;  and  so  left  severely  alone.  I  was  wrong.  Wearied  as 
I  had  become  of  their  attentions,  this  did  not  shake  them 
oflF.  They  seemed  determined,  rather,  to  force  me  into  read- 
ing their  weeklies.  I  found  them  in  my  room ;  thrust  on 
me  wherever  I  went ;  foisted  on  me  through  the  post-office. 
But  I  steadily  refused  to  read  them,  and  so  obstinate  an 
indifference  to  the  voice  of  their  oracles  must  have  puzzled 
them. 

"On  the  24th  of  June  a  circus  was  first  advertized  as 
coming  to  Dragonsburg  and  Princeburg ;  and  the  weeklies, 
having  another  lion  to  tackle,  in  a  great  measure  dropped 
me.  Likewise,  the  villagers  didn't  persecute  me  to  read  iheir 
papers  any  more,  but  went  on  with  their  picnics.  By  George ! 
they  almost  picnicked  me  to  death !  V  have  been  troubled 
with  indigestion  ever  since. 

"I  may  here  mention  that  the  first  day  I  went  out  into 
the  street,  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  every  family  had  either 
a  boy,  a  horse,  a  dog,  or  a  cat.  that  was  afflicted  with  the 
name  of  Gilbert  Some  of  the  boys,  and  very  many  of  the 
cats  and  dogs,  were  called  Hart  —  because  it  is  shorter,  I 
suppose.  Palmer,  I  found,  was  a  favorite  name  for  their 
trotters.  Not  a  few  baby  girls,  it  seems,  were  christened 
Gilbertina.  All  this  rather  pleased  me,  I  must  admit  — till 
I  found  there  were  two  foundlings  baptized,  or  rather  named. 
Hart  Gilbert  Palmer  !  To  an  honest  man  with  a  clear  con- 
science, this  was  simply  annoying  ;  but  when  I  reflected  that 
it  was  the  only  opportunity  the  citizens  had  to  bestow  my 
name  in  full  on  one  individual,  and  that  they  had  improved 
it  on  two  occasions,  I  was  mollified.  Still,  it  sometimes 
vexed  me,  and  even  startled  me,  till  I  became  accusttfmed  to 
it,  to  hear  my  various  harsh  names  harshly  bandied  about 


th< 
bei 
•P 

nr 
tir 
ch 

ha 
sic 

a 

CO 

of 
m 
th 
in 
ci 
te 
s< 

d 
a 


11 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmr. 


5« 


Iter  than  a 
Vearied  as 
lake  them 
I  into  read- 
thrust  on 
post-office. 
>stinate  an 
ve  puzzled 

^crtized  as 
e  weeklies, 
re  dropped 
3  read  iheir 
By  George ! 
:n  troubled 

;nt  out  into 
f  had  either 
d  with  the 
lany  of  the 
s  shorter,  I 
le  for  their 
i  christened 
admit  —  till 
ther  named, 
a  clear  con- 
eflected  that 
bestow  my 
,d  improved 
t  sometimes 
customed  to 
ndieU  about 


the  street  — particularly  when  the  gamins  would  yell.  'Gil- 
bert'11  wallop  your  dog';  or  'Hart's  got  the  mange';  or 
'  Palmer  ain't  the  nag  he  used  to  be.' 

"All  this  time  the  match-making  mammas  were  making 
my  life  a  burden.  I  must  confess  my  sympathies  were  en- 
tirely with  those  lonely  spinsters  who,  having  no  one  to 
chaperon  them,  entered  the  lists  and  gamely  fought  single- 
handed  against  those  well-equipped  mammas  for  the  posses- 
sion of  my  coveted  gold. 

"  The  Fourth  of  July  drew  near,  and  I  determined  to  play 
a  trick  on  the  villagers  that  should  amuse  me  for  years  to 
come.     There  wert  to  be  great  local    doings'  on  this  day, 
of  course  ;  and  th.   villagers  plannea  to  make  a  spectacle  of 
me  as  an  orator,  etc.   But  I  told  them,  six  days  beforehand, 
that  I  purposed  to  do  m ,   ceU  ^rating  in  private,  away  out 
in  the  country.    Tivis  annc .  icement  ^lone    vhetted  their 
curiosity.      Then   I  visitad  the  villi    -^  tailoi  and  outfit- 
ter    The  incessant   picnics   and       ling-parties  had  told 
severely  on  my  wearing  aT>t)arel ;    and  why    Hould  I  not 
'patronize  home  industry     a.    the  tailor's  s.,j  read?      I 
directed  him  to  make  me   ;  suu,  of  his  very  best  material, 
and  to  have  it  finished  and  delivered  to  me,  without  fr  K  V  ' 
July  3d      With  great  care  I  selected  a  silk  hat,  and,  aiter 
cautioning  him  for  the  fifth  or  sixth  time  to  have  my  suit 
finished  by  the  3d,  left  his  shop.    Several  idlers  had  dropped 
in  while  I  was  giving  my  iiisiructions,  and  had  taken  care- 
ful notes.     I  was  not  surprised  at  this.     In  fact.  I  had  bar- 
gained on  it ;  for  a  great  many  curious  and  gossipy  people 
made  it  a  business  to  dog  me  about  and  watch  my  every 
movement.    They  took  a  special  pride  in  supplying  all  the 
latest  and  raciest  gossip  about  other  people's  affairs ;  and 
they  knew  ^^"  *  • '  they  lagged  behind  in  this  particular,  their 
reputation  as  newsmongers  would  be  endangered. 


52 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmer. 


"  Next  I  went  into  various  other  shops,  and  ordered  gim- 
crackery  with  a  iavishness  that  was  phenomenal :  a  riding- 
whip,  a  pair  of  lady's  gauntlets,  a  gorgeous  parasol,  a  box 
of  Malaga  grapes,  a  few  pounds  of  confectionery,  and  I  know 
not  what.  All  these  were  to  be  sent  to  me,  without  fail, 
before  the  Fourth.  I  perceived  that  the  on-lookers  noted  all 
my  purchases,  and  that  the  shopkeepers  marvelled ;  and  I 
chuckled. 

"  I  suflFered  twenty-four  hours  to  pass  before  I  again  ap- 
peared on  the  street ;  and,  as  I  had  anticipated,  a  good  many 
able-bodied  people  were  waiting  and  watching  for  me.    Af- 
ter taking  a  few  steps  I  turned  squarely  about,  and  seeing 
that  I  was  followed,  I  paused,  as  if  irresolute.     I  feigned 
anxiety  to  avoid  them  by  turning  up  one  by-street  and  down 
another  ;  and  by  doubling  on  them  repeatedly  I  contrived 
to  bring  up  at  my  destination,  the  village  livery-stables, 
apparently  unobserved.     I  say,  apparently  unobserved,  for 
they  perceived  my  eflForts  to  escape  observation,  and  consid- 
erately pretended  to  let  me  elude  them  ;  but  I  knew  I  was 
watched,  all  the  time.    The  village  now  believed  that  I 
wished  to  keep  my  plans  and  movements  a  secret,  and  I 
felicitated  myself  on  my  amazing  shrewdness  in  hoodwink- 
ing everybody  so  completely.     I  told  the  proprietor  of  the 
livery  that  I  wanted  a  good  horse  —  in  fact,  the  best  one  he 
had— for  the  Fourth.     He  showed  me  such  an  animal,  and  I 
examined  it  critically,  remarked  that  it  seemed  good  for  a 
twenty  -mile  run,  and  tendered  him  an  eagle.     He  protested 
that  was  too  much  ;  but  I  told  him  it  was  my  affair  how 
much  I  paid,  and  that  I  would  have  given  a  handful  of  them 
but  I  would  have  secured  the  horse.     Then  he,  in  his  turn, 
became  curious,  but  he  was  crafty  and  disguised  it.     I  re- 
marked, incidentally,  that  I  hoped  the  roads  wouldn't  be 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmer. 


53 


sred  gim- 
a  riding- 
>1,  a  box 
d  I  know- 
low/  fail, 
noted  all 
d ;  and  I 

again  ap- 
Qod  many 

me.    Af- 
ad  seeing 
I  feigned 
and  down 
contrived 
y-stables, 
erved,  for 
id  consid- 
ew  I  was 
ed  that  I 
ret,  and  I 
loodwink- 
tor  of  the 
est  one  he 
nal,  and  I 
rood  for  a 
:  protested 
affair  how 
rulofthem 
a  his  turn, 

it.     I  re- 
)uldn*t  be 


dusty;  then  added  carelessly  that  I  supposed  the  old  private 
short-cut  to  the  Ochiltrees'  was  still  open,  and  that  it  was 
the  pleasantest  and  quietest  road  I  knew.  I  had  now  suflS- 
ciently  piqued  the  man's  curiosity,  and  after  charging  him 
to  send  me  the  horse  at  eight  o'clock  sharp  on  the  morning 
of  the  4th,  I  went  back  to  the  hotel,  noticing  that  I  had 
been  tracked  to  the  livery-stable. 

"  Let  me  here  explain  that  the  name  of  Ochiltree  was  an 
unknown  name  in  all  that  county  and  in  all  that  region.  I 
had  taken  particular  pains  to  consult  documentary  evidence 
and  assure  myself  of  this  fact. 

' 'All  this  was  four  or  five  days  before  the  Fourth.  I  wanted 
the  thing  generally  known,  and  I  also  wanted  to  give  the 
villagers  plenty  of  time  to  make  any  changes  in  their  pro- 
gramme for  the  day  that  they  might  think  expedient. 

"  On  the  ist  of  July  I  formally  told  most  of  my  friends  that 
I  should  leave  for  the  Pacific  coast  on  the  great  and  glorious 
Fourth,  by  the  night  train  ;  but  that  I  should  take  my  de- 
parture from  a  neighboring  town,  and  that  probably  they 
would  see  the  last  of  me  on  the  3d  inst.  Several  of  them 
begged  me  to  stay  over  for  the  circus,  on  which  auspicious 
day,  it  would  appear,  they  hoped  to  work  me  up  to  a  pra 
posal.  The  greatest  uncertainty  prevailed  as  to  whom  I 
should  propose ;  but  a  proposal,  to  any  person,  would  relieve 
the  general  anxiety. 

"The  news  of  my  openly -announced  departure  on  the 
Fourth  threw  the  village  into  a  ferment.  There  was  more  ex- 
citement than  a  local  election  would  have  caused.  But  who 
was  this  Ochiltree?  Where  did  he  live  ?  Was  it  Am  daughter 
that  I  was  to  elope  with,  or  whose  ?  When  had  I  made  the 
unknown's  acquaintance,  anyway  ?  In  my  neglected  youth, 
probably,  when  no  one  had  bothered  to  watch  me.     On  the 


54 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmer. 


3d  I  formally  bade  my  honest  friends  good-by.  A  few  asked 
me  pointed  questions  about  my  proposed  jaunt  on  the  mor- 
row, but  the  great  majority  maintained  a  dignified  silence  on 
that  subject. 

"The  eve  of  July  the  Fourth  came  punctually  on  time. 
At  the  eleventh  hour  I  sent  a  note  to  the  liyery-stable,  saying 
I  must  have  the  horse  at  half-past  seven,  instead  of  eight  — 
which  was  a  wise  move  on  my  part.  Then  I  packed  my 
trunk,  carefully  putting  away  in  it  all  the  feminine  finery  I 
had  bought,  and  which  had  been  delivered  to  me  promptly 
that  day  at  noon. 

"  At  7:30  A.  M.,  July  the  Fourth,  I  sprang  on  my  horse  and 
rode  away  to  ihe  west.  This  highway  led  to  no  important 
point,  as  I  very  well  knew,  unless  one  followed  it  for  some 
fifty  miles.  I  rode  out  of  the  village  at  a  smart  pace,  and  at 
once  perceived  that  my  utmost  anticipations  were  to  be  real- 
ized. But  as  I  noticed  what  was  going  on  about  me,  my 
heart  smote  me  at  the  thought  of  spoiling  the  holiday  of  so 
many  guileless  people. 

"The  village  was  rising  as  one  man  to  pursue  me !  I  verily 
believe  there  was  not  a  Hart,  a  Gilbert,  or  a  Palmer,  in  all 
that  region,  sound,  or  blind,  or  spavined,  or  foundered,  that 
was  not  pressed  into  service.  It  was  indeed  lucky  for  me 
that  I  was  off  half  an  hour  before  they  expected  me.  '"A 
stem  chase  is  a  long  chase,"  '  I  said  to  myself,  '  but  this  time 
it  will  be  a  woeful  way  longer  for  them  than  for  me  ! ' 

"  On  they  came,  amid  clouds  of  dust.  It  was  well  that  I 
had  provided  myself  with  a  riding- whip,  for  I  needed  it  sorely. 
I  had  not  ridden  far  when  I  saw  a  horseman  stationed  by  the 
roadside,  waiting  calmly.  Soon  another,  and  another..  I 
wheeled  down  a  dirt  road  and  galloped  on.  Lo,  there,  also, 
were  horsemen  ! 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmer. 


55 


"  This  was  beginning  to  get  interesting  !  These  sentinel 
horsemen  would  be  able  to  put  the  pursuers  on  my  track  at 
every  turn.  The  pursuers,  however,  kept  so  far  in  the  back- 
ground that  I  could  hardly  suspect,  as  yet,  that  they  were 
actually  following  me.  Evidently,  these  meddlesome  villa- 
gers knew  what  they  were  about,  and  meant  business. 

'"I  will  show  them,  however,'  I  muttered,  ' that  they  are 
no  match  for  a  man  who  knows  the  world  as  I  do.'  So  I  in- 
quired of  each  horseman,  as  I  encountered  him,  the  lay  of 
the  land  and  of  the  diflFerent  roads,  and  left  each  one  with  a 
wrong  impression  as  to  the  road  I  should  take.  I  made 
sharp  turas,  and  took  my  course  over  half-a-dozen  roads, 
giving  sentinels  and  wayfarers,  each  and  all,  a  false  notion 
of  my  route.  All  this,  I  argued,  would  confuse  my  pursuers 
and  scatter  them  over  the  country  in  every  direction,  thus 
giving  me  an  opportunity  to  escape. 

"  Three  miles  from  the  town  I  found  there  were  no  more 
sentinels  posted.  Apparently  it  was  thought  that  once  fairly 
started  on  my  track,  it  would  be  an  easy  matter  to  keep  me 
in  view.  But,  had  these  scouts  been  placed  to  the  east,  the 
north,  and  the  south,  is  closely  as  I  found  them  along  my 
route  ?  I  flattered  myself  that  it  must  be  so,  but  never  made 
bold  to  probe  the  matter. 

"'Now,' I  mused,  'these  searchers  after  knowledge  will 
study  the  geography  of  this  tract  of  country  more  thoroughly 
to-day  than  they  have  ever  studied  it  before  since  their  four- 
teenth year ;  it  will  give  them  an  outing,  and  their  holiday 
won't  be  entirely  lost.' 

"After  passing  the  last  sentry  I  fetched  a  detour,  and 
threw  the  pursuers  completely -off  the  scent.  I  glimpsfed  a 
party  of  them  once,  as  I  rode  along,  and  that  one  fleeting 
view  puffed  me  up  with  pride,  and  amply  recouped  me  for 


56 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmer. 


the  gold  I  had  squandered  for  that  day's  sport.  It  always 
does  a  man  good  to  find  that  he  is  not  without  regard  in  his 
native  place,  and  that  his  schemes  are  successful.  And 
surely  I  had  found  this,  to  my  satisfaction  ! 

"  Now  I  was  firee  to  journey  whither  I  pleased ;  and  after 
a  good  half-hour's  ride  I  brought  up  at  a  substantial  farm- 
house, barely  seven  miles  from  Center  Will,  as  the  crow  flies. 
Here  lived  an  oldtime  schoolfellow  of  mine,  whom  I  had  not 
seen  for  years.    He  was  overjoyed  at  the  meeting,  and  we 
spent  the  rest  of  the  day  happily  together,  recalling  scenes  of 
our  boyhood  days.     If  I  did  talk  to  his  sister  as  much  as  I 
did  to  him,  I  don't  suppose  it  is  anybody's  affair  but  hers  and 
mine ;  and  if  I  did  make  over  my  box  of  grapes  (which  I 
had  found  great  trouble  in  bringing  along)  to  a  still  smaller 
sister,— one  whom  I  had  never  seen,— I  was  only  treating 
her  as  well  as  (or  rather  better  than)  I  had  been  treated 
myself,  in  days  gone  by,  when  I  was  blessed  with  a  charming 
elder  sister  of  my  own.    But  it  is  an  irrelevancy  to  make  any 
mention  of  such  things  at  all,  in  this  narration.     I  had  noti- 
fied Will  that  he  might  look  for  me  on  the  forenoon  of  the 
Fourth ;  but  they  ought  not  to  have  expected  me  to  do 
justice  to  the  extraordinary  dinner  they  had  prepared  for 
me.    As  I  have  said  several  times,  the  picnickers  ruined  my 

appetite. 

• '  During  the  course  of  the  afternoon  three  diflferent  squads 
of  searches  passed  the  old  farm-house,  and  I  quaked  in- 
wardly, fearing  that  I  had  been  run  to  earth,  after  all.  But 
they  all  passed  on.  Then  the  entire  force  of  village  hood- 
lums and  gamins,  who  served  as  a  rear-guard,  filed  past,  fully 
half  a  hundred  strong.  Their  holiday  was  not  utterly  a 
blank,  I  am  glad  to  say,  for  they  were  freely  popping  off  the 
joyous  fire-cracker  as  they  scattered  along. 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmer. 


57 


[always 

in  his 

And 

id  after 

Jl  farni- 

w  flies. 

lad  not 

and  we 

:enesof 

ch  as  I 

ersand 

which  I 

smaller 

treating 

treated 

larming 

ake  any 

ad  noti- 

a  of  the 

e  to  do 

ared  for 

inedmy 

t  squads 
ked  in- 
1.  But 
e  hood- 
8t,  fully 
tterly  a 
:  off  the 


"  The  enemy  were  on  the  right  trail,  certainly ;  but  they 
did  not  find  me  out.  However,  I  confided  in  Will  and  his 
sister,  and  obtained  their  promise  to  keep  the  matter  a 
secret. 

"  About  six  o'clock,  seeing  no  enemies  in  sight,  I  mounted 
my  horse  and  rode  into  town,  thinking  to  deepen  the  mystery 
and  astonish  the  villagers  afresh.  I  did  not  find  quite  so 
deserted  a  place  as  I  had  fondly  imagined  I  should.  There 
were  still  enough  able-bodied  people  left  behind  to  have 
defended  Center  Hill  against  any  evil-disposed  tramps  that 
might  have  come  in  by  freight  train.  But  the  villagers  were 
paralyzed  to  see  me  back,  at  that  hour.  The  time  th  v  had 
arbitrarily  fixed,  it  seems,  for  my  earliest  possible  re',  im  — 
in  case  I  should  return  —  was  ten  o'clock. 

"I  was  mean  enough  to  tantalize  them  all  still  further. 
I  ate  my  supper  and  left  on  the  eight  o'clock  train  for 
Dragonsburg,  a  town  twelve  miles  t6  the  northwest.  I  had 
my  trunk  checked  for  this  point,  too.  I  don't  know  whether 
I  was  followed,  or  not ;  but  I  left  my  native  town  —  perhaps 
forever—  a  prey  to  the  most  appalling  speculations  and 
doubts  about  myself.  I  changed  cars  at  Dragonsburg,  and 
left  on  the  midnight  train  for  Chicago. 

"  It  is  a  question  if  any  one  individual  ever  brought  about 
so  many  blasted  hopes,  and  demoralized  air-castles,  and  ruin- 
ous baker's  bills,  as  I  did  by  my  outrageous  behayior  at 
Center  Hill.  Perhaps  they  try  to  console  themselves  with 
the  thought  that  my  unknown  sweetheart  must  have  given 
me  the  mitten. 

"  I  never  had  the  temerity  to  make  inquiries  and  find  out 
whether  those  poor,  misguided  people  still  go  on  inflicting 
my  various  names  on  the  rising  generation  of  men  and 
brutes.  But  I  presume  they  don't ;  I  presume  they  heartily 
wish  they  had  never  known  me  or  heard  of  me. 


58 


Hart  Gilbert  Palmer. 


"Good  George  !  I  have  talked  myself  hoarse,  and  my 
listeners  fast  asleep  !  " 

"  Not  all.  But  what  about  the  gloves,  parasol,  and  other 
feminine  luxuries  ?" 

"That  is  entirely  an  irrelevant  question.  Still,  as  you 
must  have  inferred  the  significance  of  my  visit  to  Will,  and 
as  I  am  feeling  pretty  good-natured,  I  will  tell  you  :  I  have 
succeeded  in  working  oflF  most  of  those  knick-knacks  on  my 
feminine  relatives.  Some  of  them,  however,  will  keep  !  — 
Goodnight!" 


'^^"^^^^^ 


l¥J,'«LiUil~3J«-'^" 


id  my 


other 


Such  is  Life. 


59 


IS  you 
11,  and 
I  have 
on  my 
ep !  — 


SUCH  IS  UFE. 

I  M)VED  a  lass  of  sweet  sixteen 

As  mortal  mad  ne'er  loved  before ; 

Of  my  fond  heart  she  was  the  queen, 
And  should  be  so  for  evermore. 

Her  eyes  were  of  the  softest  blue. 

Her  hair  was  of  the  richest  brown  ; 

Her  heart  to  me  I  felt  was  true, 

And  on  my  suit  she  did  not  frown. 

From  March  till  June  I  wooed  my  love, 
And  gloried  in  her  gentler  rule ; 

"My  love,"  I  cried,  "for  this  fair  dove,^ 
Can  nothing  sap,  can  uothmg  cof .. 

I  raved  about  her  silken  hair ; 

I  feasted  on  her  eyes  so  blue ; 
I  said,  "  No  other  is  so  fair. 

No  other  is  so  sweet  and  true." 

I  swore  that  she  should  be  -my  own ; 

I  swore  to  take  a  rival's  life ; 
I  swore -but  when  twelve  months  had  flown 

Another  sweetheart  was  my  wife. 


6o 


Could  I  But  Know. 


COULD  I  BUT  KNOW 


To  One  Miss  Frost. 


Could  I  but  know  that  any  years 
That  swift  will  come,  as  ten  have  gone, 

Would  one  day  bring 

The  cruel  sting 
From  my  sad  heart,  which  nothing  cheers. 

Could  I  but  know 

Whether  or  no 
In  future  time  bright  days  will  dawn. 
And  fierce  Despair  yield  up  his  fears. 

Could  I  but  know,  oh,  silent  one ! 
That  you  would  care  were  I  cut  ofif;, 

Would  waste  one  tear 

Over  my  bier, 
Sadly  reflect  my  race  was  run. 

Could  I  but  know 

If  you  would  go 
Still  wreathed  with  smiles,  still  quick  to  scoflF 
At  the  poor  wretch  whose  work  was  done. 


ssmg<mmmm>mim 


nr 


Could  I  But  Ktww. 

Could  I  but  know,  long-loved  iweetheart. 
That  you  would  heed  well-earned  renown 
Coming  to  me, 
On  piniona  free ! 
Would  you  then  feel  or  joy  or  amart? 
Could  I  but  know 
Whether  or  no 
Fame  would  bring  me  your  amile  or  frown, 
Or  one  kind  word,  wrung  from  youi  heart. 

Could  I  but  know  that,  after  all, 
The  old-Ume  love  might  burat  aflame. 
Surge  in  your  heart. 
Wake  with  a  atart— 
Wake  to  new  life,  come  at  my  call ! 
Could  I  but  know 
It  might  be  ao! 
For  past  miaUkea  mine  be  the  blame, 
Since,  to  all  time,  I  am  your  thrall. 


6l 


«— 


^ 


«a 


The  Creek  by  the  School-House. 


THE  CREEK  BY  THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

ThbRB  are  •treain*  that  in  wildnett  or  beauty 
Can  outvie  the  loved  atreatnlet  that  flowed 

Paat  the  school-houae  that  stood  on  the  hill-top, 
On  the  sunniest  side  of  the  road. 

But  I  question  if  any  broad  river 

Ever  proved  a  more  bountiful  giver 

Of  delight,  to  the  scholars  that  thronged  it. 
When  recess  gave  them  all  an  hour's  freedom. 

In  the  spring  it  was  surely  a  river, 

And  the  flood-time  would  last  many  days. 

When  our  teacher  would  give  object  lessons. 
Showing  islands,  and  channels,  and  bays. 

How  we  waded,  and  splashed,  and  made  merry 

In  the  building  of  staunch  rafts,  to  ferry 

All  our  schoolmates  across  the  wide  waters, 
While  we  caught  frightful  colds,  or  took  quinsy. 


When  the  floods  had  receded  and  stranded 

Our  old  raft,  we  at  once  built  a  dam. 
Which  afforded  a  pond,  that  was  spacious. 

And  a  cascade — that  was  but  a  sham. 
There  were  trout  in  the  creek,  though  some  doubted, 
Till  it  came  to  my  uncle,  who  shouted, 

"They  would  scarce  know  a  trout  from  a  dolphin!" 

And  the  next  day  he  hooked  all  our  beauties. 


^a. 


The  Creek  by  the  School-House. 

1  have  fi.hed  In  «ome  .treanii  that  are  fa.nou.. 

Both  in  blatory,  legend,  and  »ong ; 
Had  the  luck  that  the  fiahermau  boaata  of, 

Told  the  talea  that  to  our  craft  belong. 
But  my  heart  itill  goes  out  to  the  funny 
Little  fiahea  I  caught,  in  the  aunny 

Afternoon,  that  1  atayed  after  «:hool  hour. 
And  went  fi.hing.  with  no  thought  of  lying. 

It  wa.  there  I  outakated  a  rival. 

And  cha..ged  boyhood',  warm  friend.hip  to  .trife  ; 
Till  next  Mason  he  .aved  me  from  drowning, 

At  the  imminent  riak  of  hi.  life. 
To  that  atream  and  it.  memorie.  w  treaaured 
My  heart  turna,  with  a  fondne..  unmea.ured  ; 

And  whenever  I  meet  an  old  »choolmate 

How  our  Ulk  drift,  to  dam.,  raft.,  and  ducking.! 


63 


1!' 


lit. 


Privateer  and  the  Pirate. 


THE  PRIVATEER  AND  THE  PIRATE. 

•TWA8  ■  bllthetoine  day  lh«t  we  tailed  away, 

In  a  gallant  ahip,  on  a  twelvemonth  trip, 
With  a  fav'rlng  breeie,  to  Pacific  aea*. 

All  intent  to  aeiie  — or  at  leatt  to  teaae  — 
An  old  pirate  chief,  who'd  long  played  the  thief, 

And  blurred  Hitfry'a  leaf,  ere  he  came  to  grief. 
He  waa  aaid  to  nip  and  to  rutbleaa  rtrip 

All  that  came  hia  way  in  the  shape  of  prey. 

We  had  guna  abaft  on  our  warlike  craft ; 

We  had  rifled  guna ;  we  had  ahot  by  tona ; 
For  the  rigging  placed ;  in  the  good  aliip's  waitt ; 

Ev'rywhere  you  traced  what  waa  nice  to  baate 
The  old  pirate's  hull,  or  to  crack  the  skull 

Of  his  miniona  dull  and  Iheir  reign  annul. 
We  were  freemen's  sons,  and  the  flag  that  runa 

Peace  and  trade  to  waft  floated  fore  and  aft. 

We'd  a  crew  as  bold  as  those  men  of  old 

Whom  Decatur  led,  or  as  those  who  bled 
On  the  Chesapeake,  time  that  "Greek  joined  Greek." 

Should  our  sabers  speak,  foul  the  decks  must  reek 
With  the  pirates'  gore.    We  had  swords  in  store. 

With  small-arms  galore ;  and  to  fight  all  swore 
Till  the  rascals  fled,  or  our  crew  lay  dead, 

With  their  lives  dear  aold,  and  their  tale  untold. 

Yet  we  had  no  care,  but  were  debonair ; 

Just  enjoyed  a  fray;  — we  were  rigged  that  way. 
We  were  full  of  fun,  and  the  yams  we  spun 

On  a  moonlit  run,  or  'neath  murky  sun. 


Of 
In 

Ot 
Ol 
•T 
A 

O 

V 
\ 

y 


The  Privates  and  the  Pirate. 

Of  fierce  cor«irH'  gol<I.  of  the  dewl  men  coUl 
In  a  ve«»eV«  hoU.  that  the  l.illow.  rolled 

In  the  dawning  gray  of  a  squally  day- 

J«.t  to  raise  the  hair,  and  mld.hipmen  ware! 

On  the  good  ship  sped,  when  'twaa  sn.hlet.  said 

"""  Thaf  a  .trangeTraft  bore  to  Van  ^^T^^'' 

Off  our  larboard  bow;  and  Hwa.  ?""«'\  >;"    '"*^' 

From  her  jib  and  prow,  we  might  well  allow 
•Twa.  the  pirate  ship  that  we  longed  to  ^»»»P- 

Should  we  tackle  slip  and  their  speed  outstrip, 
And  let  cannon  roar  ere  the  day  was  oer? 

Should  we  not  instead  make  as  if  we  flertf 

Our  swart  captain's  word  prompt  and  clear  was  heard 

We  must  let  her  chase  till  she  won  the  race, 
And  then  slow  her  pace,  with  an  easy  grace, 

With  a  broadside  blaze  that  would  ""C**  •"»«• 
That  would  splinters  raise  Id  our  laughing  gaze , 

While  her  crew,  dismayed,  and  by  terror  "wayed^ 
Found  they'd  sadly  erred,  and  a  hornet  stirred. 

So  we  tacked  about,  as  in  sudden  rout, 

Once  we  clearly  knew  that  the  ilrange  ships  crew 
Had  our  «iil  espied.    The  look-out.  '"O"  «="«^    . 

Our  attempt  to  hide  was  a  dodge  well  tried 
For  the  stranger  tacked,  with  a  haste  that  smacked 

Of  a  pirate's  act  and  a  quarry  tracked. 
Brisk  the  east  wind  blew;  fast  she  did  pursue; 

And  we  had  no.  doubt  of  a  lively  bout. 

To  reUrd  our  speed  to  the  pirate's  need 

We  let  anchors  slip  and  the  fore-sail  rip. 
Which  made  progress  slow,  yet  for  "^e  o^  .how 

We  wemed  fain  to  go  and  ewape  the  blow. 
Our  good  .hip  did  lag  and  the  fleet  hours  wag. 

Till  they  rai«5d  the  rag  called  a  pirate  flag; 
When  we  thought  a  tip  f~«the  cannon  .  lip 

Would  proclaim  our  creed  and  give  u.  the  lead. 


65 


7he  Privateer  and  the  Pirate. 


I' 


So  we  drew  a  bead  on  their  flag  of  greed, 

Which  was  shot  away.     Quick  we  then  display 
The  old  Stars  and  Stripes,  while  a  gunner  gripes 

The  hot  iron  and  wipes  from  their  bows  all  types 
Of  life-boat  or  launch.    But  our  cheeks  soon  blanch, 

For  their  hot  balls  craunch  through  our  good  ship's  paunch. 
With  sounds  that  convey,  beyond  all  gainsay, 

We  must  drown  indeed,  or  to  pirates  cede. 

We  would  all  die  game,  so  we  took  quick  aim 

At  the  pirate's  stern,  with  intent  to  burn 
His  infamous  craft  (for  the  wind  was  aft), 

While  the  wretches  laughed  and  our  good  health  quaffed. 
But  the  shot  flew  wide,  and  we  were  denied 

What  had  raised  our  pride  in  the  hour  we  died. 
It  was  now  their  turn  our  requests  to  spurn. 

Though  we  all  felt  shame  any  ruth  to  claim. 

We  looked  for  the  noose,  but  a  flag  of  truce 

To  our  gaze  was  flung,  and  to  ev'ry  tongue 
There  came  words  of  praise,  while  our  captain  pays 

His  respects  and  says,  "I  don't  like  such  ways; 
We  shall  hang,  I  fear,  but  we  all  drown  here ; 

And  fond  hope  will  cheer  till  escape  draw  near  — 
Or  till  we  are  swung."     To  our  boats  we  sprung, 

And  in  time  cut  loose  from  the  Hissing  Goose. 

We  were  well  received,  but  of  arms  relieved ; 

While  our  good  ship  sank  as  we  heard  the  clank 
Of  the  irons  they  brought,  to  bind  all,  we  thought. 

But  we  learned  they  sought  those  who  steel  work  wrought. 
Our  machinists  three,  whom  they  quick  set  free. 

Would  they  but  agree,  upon  bended  knee. 
To  adjust  some  crank  which  had  played  a  prank, 

That  had  all  deceived,  and  their  captain  grieved. 

With  sail  power  alone  they  could  hold  their  own. 

But  they  engines  had,  which  a  callow  lad 
As  their  engineer,  in  his  dullness  queer, 

Or  when  seized  with  fear,  had  thrown  out  of  gear. 


W( 
Bu 

Tl 
O 
Ir 

s: 

s 
I 


ranch. 


uaffed. 


The  Privateer  atid  the  Pirate. 

We  all  seemed  to  know  we  were  doomed  to  woe 
As  they  marched  us  slow  to  the  guards  below ; 

But  our  captors  glad  in  their  mirth  were  mad, 

While  we  would  not  moan  o'er  our  fate  unknown. 

That  hot  night  seemed  long  as  we  heard  the  song 

Of  the  pirates  drunk,  till  a  stupor  sunk 
Over  one  and  all. —  Hist !    Our  workmen's  call ! 

Then  a  sudden  brawl,  and  the  pirates  sprawl 
In  a  maudlin  rage,  but  short  combat  wage. 

Ere  our  guards  engage  they  are  in  our  cage, 
Spite  of  all  their  spunk  ;  and  the  pirate  junk 

Does  to  us  belong,  as  her  decks  we  throng! 

All  the  thieves  there  shipped  much  of  anguish  sipped. 

But  we  all  were  fain  to  avoid  blood  stain  ; 
So  a  port  we  made  and  our  charges  laid. 

Never  more  they  strayed  on  a  thieving  raid ! 
From  their  horrid  boasts  we  have  freed  all  coasts; 

And  now  but  as  ghosts  will  those  robber  hosts 
Sail  upon  the  main,  or  their  fights  maintain. — 

We  in  this  way  whipped  their  last  bark  equipped. 


67 


rought. 


68 


Take  Courage! 


TAKE  COURAGE! 

My  boy,  has  failure  oft  been  thiue? 

Dost  think  good  fortune  always  sweet? 
Had  Washington,  at  Brandywine, 
Or  after  any  sore  defeat, 
Thought  all  was  lost,  should  we  to-day 
Claim  him  our  hero,  now  and  aye? 

Take  courage  !    Time  will  bring  redress  ; 
A  few  defeats  oft  bring  success. 

Had  Franklin  many  books,  my  boy  ? 

Were  Garfield's  younger  days  not  sad  ? 
Knew  Lincoln's  childhood  no  alloy? 
No  case  is  hopeless  for  the  lad 
Who  wills  to  win,  and  can  but  wait, 
As  hist'ry  proves,  from  earliest  date. 

Wait,  then,  my  boy  — but  waiting,  work  ! 
Nor  leisure  waste,  nor  duty  shirk ! 

My  boy,  art  thou  oppressed  by  wrong? 

Weighed  down  by  sickness?  short  of  means? 
With  friends  but  as  an  idle  throng 

Of  strangers?    Know,  if  sufTring  weans 
Thy  heart  from  folly,  pride,  and  vice, 
It  costs  thee  but  an  honest  price. 

And  harbor  not  revenge,  my  boy ; 
Deliv'rance,  used  so,  brings  no  joy. 

Take  courage !    Time  will  right  all  wrong ; 
But  hoi«  not  all  things  in  thy  youth. 
Though  long  years  pass,  be  thou  but  strong. 
With  faith  in  manhood,  justice,  truth. 
'Twere  better  to  be  all  unknown. 
Than  known  for  wealth  or  power  alone. 

Take  courage '    God  means  all  things  well  — 
How  well,  some  future  day  will  tell. 


mss^: 


Uncle  Dick  at  Church. 


69 


UNCLE  DICK  AT  CHURCH.- 

"This  morning  I  will  go  to  church," 

Quoth  Uncle  Dick  one  sunny  day, 
As  slowly  he  took  from  its  perch 

A  clothes-brush  and  began  to  play 
It  o'er  his  broadcloth  coat ;  which  done, 

He  raked  his  ragged  whiskers  through 
And  then  the  frightful  task  begun 

Of  smoothing  down  the  locks  that  grew 
Upon  his  head,  untouched  for  years 
By  either  hair-brush,  comb,  c-  shears. 

Tbeji,  last  of  all,  his  rusty  boots      • 

He  brushed  most  tenderly,  and  said, 
"Now,  if  uiy  daughter  ever  hoots 

At  these  again,  I'll  take  blacklead 
And  let  her  brush  them  her  own  self; 

For  never  shall  she  be  ashamed 
Of  her  old  dad,  now  that  his  pelf 

Has  made  him  TrustbB,  and  proclaimed 
His  worth."    The  clothes-brush  down  he  laid. 
And  then  his  long,  gaunt  form  surveyed. 

To  church  went  Uncle  Dick  that  day. 
And  solemn  looked  for  ev'ry  text, 
Though  frowns  across  his  brow  would  stray, 

To  show  he  was  at  times  perplexed 
In  doing  this  and  keeping  pace 

With  the  discourse  the  pastor  gave. 
When  hymns  were  sung  his  rugged  face 
Lit  up,  and  low  he  hummed  a  stave 
Or  two,  to  let  the  pastor  hear 
He  had  a  true  musician's  ear. 


70 


Uncle  Dick  at  Church. 

But  unawares  to  Uncle  Dick 

The  contribution-box  drew  near ; 
And  as  he  never  could  be  quick, 

His  daughter  nudged  him,  in  sharp  fear. 
Then  Uncle  Dick  drew  slowly  out 

Of  some  vast  pocket  an  old  pipe 
And  purse,  that  was  all  wound  about 
With  longish  band,  of  fiery  stripe. 
Which  slowly,  calmly,  he  unwound. 
While  all  looked  on  and  made  no  SH)und. 

The  band  unwound,  it  proved  the  ta:! 

That  some  spry  chipmunk  once  had  worn  ; 
The  purse  itself,  the  chipmunk's  pale 

Gray  skin,  in  which  had  long  been  borne 
The  silver  coin  that  Uncle  Dick 

Kept  always  handy,  to  relieve 
The  outcast,  U;  he  strong  or  sick— 

For  suffering  ever  made  him  grieve. 
With  mirth  or  shame  all  eyes  grew  dim ; 
The  choir  could  sing  no  further  hymn. 


IMH'JHKHW" 


To  the  First  Organ  Grinder  of  the  Season.         71 


TO  THE  FIRST  ORGAN-GRINDER 
OF  THE  SEASON. 

I  PRAY  you,  grind  no  more  to-day, 

Or  youV  small  eyes  may  cease  to  gleam  ; 

I'd  rather  hear  a  jackass  bray. 
Or  even  a  mad  poet  scream. 

Or,  let  me  hear  a  raven  sing ! 

It  surely  would  less  torture  bring. 

Yonr  very  monkey  seems  half  crazed, 
And  jabbers  in  a  troubled  way  ; 

The  gamins  stare  at  you  amazed, 

And  hearken  not  to  what  you  play. 

When  friendly  critics  of  this  stamp 

Find  fault,  I  think  you  should  decamp. 

Can  you  not  grind  some  other  airs 
Thftn  "  Put  Me  in  My  Little  Bed  " 

And  "  Climbing  Up  the  Golden  vStairs  ?  " 
Play  any  other  strains  instead  ; 

Grind  chestnuts  old  from  "  Pinafore," 

Or  newer  ones  from  "Ruddigore." 

P»rhaps  your  intellect  has  fled, 

Perhaps,  swan-like,  you  hymn  your  dirge 
To  put  you  in  a  narrow  be<l 

My  aggravated  passions  urge  ; 
And  though  I  fain  would  do  no  crime. 
With  you,  I  fear,  'tis  scoot  or  climb. 


72 


To  the  First  Organ  Grinder  of  the  Season. 

Our  dime3  for  Kaster-cards  >we  save, 

While  marbles  still  the  boys  entrance ; 

The  spring-time  bards  now  long  to  rave, 

And  Jack  Frost  gives  them  now  a  chance. 

Come,  get  thee  to  a  peanut  stand, 

And  cater  to  the  rhymster  band. 

Forbear,  rash  man,  to  longer  play ; 

Prepare  your  spirit  for  its  flight ; 
I  can  my  wrath  no  longer  stay ; 

Your  death  you  premature  invite.— 
Cease,  or  you'll  hear  a  maniac  shout, 
And  vou  will  think  the  stars  are  out ! 


mid  "Bill  at  Triche; . '  Corners, 


73 


WILD  BILL  AT  TRICKEYS'  CORNERS. 

A   BUCOLIC    BALLAP. 

SoMB  months  ago  a  tenderfoot 

Met  with  a  bad  Wild  Bill, 
Who  "confideuced"  him  with  a  tale 

That  mode  the  big  tews  spill. 

Evangelist,  Bill  called  himself, 

And  seemed  a  pious  man. 
(Truth  was,  he'd  worked  at  Hamlet  town 

The  Temp'rancc-racket  plan 

Of  lecturing  to  such  af  gave 

Their  dimes  to  keep  the  hog. 

Till  now  he  seemed  to  be  reduced 
To  one  wife  and  a  dog.) 

Bill  tearful  said,  it  was  like  this. 
He  now  must  beg  or  preach, 

Unless  some  good  Samaritan 
Came  soon  within  his  r^ach. 

The  tenderfoot  straight  huaiped  himself, 

Atul  gave  Bill  a  ten  spot. 
And  sent  hira  to  a  country  place 

To  take  a  house  and  lot, 

Which  ',vas  the  only  property 

The  tenderroot  had  left  ; 
Since  througt  his  misplaced  confidence 

He  oft  had  been  bereft. 


k.ti£Gif4'iilil:ik'>!(^\ 


74 


mid  'Bill  at  Trickeys'  Corners. 

It  was  a  wild  and  quiet  spot, 

And  hardly  worth  Bill's  while 
To  pose  as  an  Evangelist, 

Or  more  conceal  his  guile. 

His  pocketful  of  recommends 

From  people  who  would  fain 
Have  got  them  back,  Bill  laid  away, 

And  said,  "Now  I'll  raise  Cain!'» 

With  dynamite  he  raised  fruit-trees 

For  fuel,  and  laid  waste, 
With  huge  bon-fires,  the  orchard,  till 

A  dull,  red  hue  was  placed 

Upon  Bill's  pallid  face  again. 

And  things  got  painted  red. 
Meanwhile,  his  wife  worked  like  a  Turk 

(But  barefoot,  it  was  said,) 

To  cook  meals  for  their  white  dog.  Watch  — 
Which  must  not  starve,  because 

In  him  lay  schemes  by  which  Bill  might 
Again  evade  the  laws. 

Besides,  Bill  thought  a  dog  gave  tone 

To  his  establishment ; 
And  neighbors  to  affright,  he'd  pound 

Watch  to  hia  heart's  content. 

Wild  Bill  would  sometimes  pledge  his  watch, 
And  sometimes  his  gold  chain. 

For  a  small  loan -and  then  would  come 
A  racket  he  was  fain 

To  spring  upon  these  hapless  ones : 

He'd  say,  with  a  sad  whine, 
A  broker's  Act  exposed  them  to 

A  hundred  dollar  fine! 


«■ 


: ;  wf  TSg^Wi'ip^^^f'"^ -" " 


'.Villi  'Bill  at  Trickeys'  Corners. 

The  neighbors  thought  Bill  filled  the  bill 

As  outlaw,  born  aud  bred, 
And  said  for  fear  of  nightly  raids 

They  scarce  dare  go  to  bed. 

Bill,  when  his  little  rent  was  due, 

Lit  out  at  four  o'clock. 
And  said  he  would  a-camping  go. 

Where  bailiffs  could  not  flock. 

The  tenderfoot.  Bill's  landlord,  then 
Fast  locked  up  the  front  door : 

Bill  came  at  midnight's  quiet  hour, 
With  wife  and  dog —and  swor*!. 

Soon,  with  an  axe,  he  banged  away, 
(While  neighbors  felt  the  shock. 

And  knew  Wild  Bill  was  at  his  tricks) 
Then  burst  in,  with  a  rock. 

A  war  of  fiendish  deeds  ensued, 
With  pistol-pointing  scenes, 

And  trailings  after  constables, 
Aud  loss  of  hoarded  means. 

Then  Wild  Bill  and  the  tenderfoot 
Each  to  the  Law  repaired ; 

Bill  got  by  far  the  smartest  "limb," 
And  so  much  better  fared. 

Bill's  lawyer  thought  his  client  was 
A  real,  live,  English  lord, 

And  was  content  to  take  his  chance 
Of  getting  big  reward. 

This  lawyer  was  full  chivalrous. 
As  most  Scotch  lawyers  are ; 

He  wore  a  neat  panama  hat, 
Aud  looked  brimful  of  war. 


75 


I 


76 


IViU  'Bill  at  Trkheys'  Corners. 

When  Bill's  misdeeds  were  all  exposed 

Unto  the  light  of  day, 
He  stood  revealed  a  criminal, 

And  had  no  word  to  say. 

At  this  Bill's  lawyer  showed  surprise, 
And  mad  and  madder  grew. 

Then  swung  his  supple  arms  about, 
/Ind  read  Bill's  letters  through  ! 

Which,  having  done,  he  glared  full  on 

The  tenderfoot,  in  glee, 
With  great  attempt  to  emphasize 

His  code  of  chivalry. 

'Twas  then  the  cunning  tenderfoot 

Showed  letters,  not  a  few. 
In  which  Bill's  sponsors  called  the  man 

A  fraud,  and  rascal,  too. 

Whereat  Wild  Bill  would  fain  have  tried 

To  bolt  out  of  the  door. 
But,  facing  that  way,  lo !  one  who 

With  warrant  held  the  floor, 

To  march  Bill  off  to  lockups  vile, 
If  judgment  went  that  way. 

But  no  V  Bill's  lawyer  mopped  his  face. 
And  bri-'k  renewed  the  fray. 

The  sequel  can  be  surely  guessed: 

The  tenderfoot  got  left, 
He  got,  besides,  the  neighbors'  blame. 

And  his  front  door  was  cleft. 

A  few  aged  eggs  were  thrown  at  Bill, 
And  he  skipped  out  by  night.— 

The  moral  is,  smart  lawyers  get, 
If  you'd  come  out  all  right ! 


The  Old  IVood  Stave. 


77 


THE  OlM  WOOD  STOVE. 

How  many  glad  ThanlcBgiving  Daya,  old  friv  .d, 
Have  aeeti  a  roaring  fire  cauM  thee  to  dance 
And  chant  a  monody  that  did  enhance 

Thy  worth  with  all  the  merry  crowd  that  apend 

That  day,  in  all  the  year,  at  home,  and  blend 
Their  laughing  carols  with  the  loud  refrain 
(^  first  fire  that  heralds  winter's  reign, 

Wh.        .oaring  and  exultant,  these  portend. 

Thy  reign  and  winter's  reign  these  days  indeed 
Portend ;  and  as  each  autumn  a  feast  day 
Thy  advent  marks,  so  the  first  robin's  lay 

Suggests  thy  banishment,  and  we  make  speed 

To  claim  again  we  have  no  further  need 

Of  thy  fierce  heat,  and  thou  art  housed  away 
In  the  fresh  spring-time,  ere  yet  it  is  May, 

To  summer's  exile,  where  no  one  will  heed. 

Alas !  in  these  days  thou  art  exiled  quite— 

These  modem  days,  which  scorn  thee  as  old  scrap, 
Which  scarcely  think  it  worth  the  while,  mayhap. 

To  cart  thee  to  a  junk  shop,  but  delight 

In  furnaces  and  natural  gas,  despite 

That  plumbers  are  more  haughty  than  the  chap 
Who,  with  his  basswood  maple,  did  entrap 

Those  who  well  loved  thy  honest  heat  and  light 

Yet  some  of  us  still  heave  a  sigh  to  know 
The  wood-stove  of  the  forties  had  to  go  I 


diHiiiaiAmd^  i ' 


iminH  I"'"' 


78 


A  Sad  Face  on  the  Street. 


A  SAD  FACE  ON  THE  STREET. 

IT  chanced  a  sad-faced  invalid— 

Who  lacked  the  Kreat  renown 
That  money  gives  in  this  mad  age. 

Which,  with  a  lofty  frown, 
Man  measures  by  his  bank-account, 

A  lady  by  her  gown- 
Was  seen  full  often  on  the  street, 

lu  one  far  Northern  town. 

Some  hdped  for  him  he  might  reach  Heaven, 

Where  he  would  need  no  feet, 
But  could  provide  no  means  below 

For  him,  as  man,  to  eat. 
With  heathen  still  in  Africa, 

Could  ladies  pause  to  greet, 
Day  after  day,  one  who  was  but 

A  stranger  on  the  street? 

It  was  beneath  their  dignity 

To  care  for  such  as  he. 
Perhaps  some  ladies  feared  his  tongue 

Was  trained  to  swear  with  glee ; 
For  aught  they  knew,  he  might  be  mad, 

A  fool,  or  a  "Chinee"; 
He  might  be  some  young  reprobate 

From  whom  they  straight  should  flee. 


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A  Sad  Face  on  the  Street. 

But  many  in  the  good  old  town 

Had  Christian  purpose  high. 
A  Tennysonian  maxim  runs, 

(It  may  have  met  their  eye) 
^'Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets." — 

How  could  this  here  apply? 
What  mattered  it,  so  long  as  they 

Could  silent  pass  him  by? 

No  creed,  as  clearly  was  made  out, 

Such  hardship  could  embrace. 
Besides,  it  was  much  easier 

The  Darwin  view  of  race 
To  take,  "The  fittest  must  survive," 

And  fit  it  to  his  case ; 
And  if,  heart-broken,  he  soon  died — 

Farewell  to  his  sad  face. 

It  was  not  that  he  wished  for  aid, 

Or  with  wild  tales  ctgoled 
The  citizens.    He  had  no  vice ; 

He  envied  none  their  gold  ; 
A  means  to  help  himself  was  all 

He  asked,  with  frankness  bold ; 
But  while  some  a  keen  interest  took. 

This  means  they  would  withhold. 

He  found  indeed  some  sterling  friends ; 

(True  men  are  ever  good) 
To  them  he  was  a  brother  man, 

Who  did  here  what  he  could. — 
At  last  he  disappeared  from  town, 

To  gentler  neighborhood ; 
Some  wondered  if  he'd  e'er  come  back ; 

Some  hoped  he  never  would. 

Had  he  but  been  an  Indian, 

From  some  side-show  estrayed; 

A  murderer,  a  mountebank 
In  some  nefarious  trade ; 


79 


8o 


A  Sad  Face  on  the  Street. 


If  he  had  e'er  been  in  the  toils 

Of  Law ;  had  he  arrayed 
Himself  like  fop  or  clown,  'twould  have 

A  wondrous  diff 'rence  made ! 

Perhaps  some  day  he'll  reach  the  Heaven 

He  surely  had  in  view, 
And  there  may  be  as  well  received 

As  either  I  or  you. 
In  that  event,  shall  we  feel  shame 

We  had  not  proved  as  true 
To  him,  on  earth,  as  unto  those 

Who  were  quite  well-to-do? 


A  l{ainy  April  Day. 


8i 


A  RAINY  APRIL  DAY. 

Ali«  day  long  a  steady  rain, 

Though  the  sun  tries  hard  to  shine, 
And  to-morrow  it  is  plain 

That  the  weather  will  be  fine. 
So  indoors  I  will  remain, 

Watching  rain-drops  crystalline. 
And  for  pastime  will  arraign. 

Not  the  weather  saturnine, — 
Which  were  but  a  task' of  pain, 

And  might  prove  a  stupid  whine, — 
But  those  rbymsters  who  complain 

Of  their  Muse,  in  leonine 
Anapests  that  were  germane 

To  the  genus  asinine. 
Surely  it  requires  no  brain 

To  turn  verses  metalline, 
And  work  in,  as  a  refrain, 

Sc  nething  of  a  vespertine 
Converse,  in  which  Lady  Jane 

Is  assured  by  Constantine 
That  he  loves  her,  might  and  main. 

All  these  poets  wait  a  sign 
From  Apollo's  sacred  fane, 

Waiting,  as  a  drove  of  kine 
Moo  and  wait  the  tardy  swain, 

Who  must  come  with  Scotch  canine, 
Bre  they  can  get  home  again. 

Should  the  old  god  prove  supine. 


8a 


A  %ainy  April  Day. 


From  some  cause  hard  to  explain, 

As  that  he  should  now  incline 
To  bring  physics  to  the  plane 

Of  Euterpe's  art  divine, 
Or  Urania's  domain ; 

Or  should  he  be  drunk  with  wine, 
And  with  loud  remarks  profane 

Doom  the  songsters  fit  to  twine 
Roundelays  that  appertain 

To  the  fulsome  valentine; 
Bidding  Pegasus  curb  rein 

In  his  soarings,  and  confine 
The  old  steed  with  clanking  chain. 

Lest  in  rashness  he  should  pine, 
With  spread  wings  and  tossing  mane. 

In  a  frolicsome  design 
To  bear  rhymsters,  young  and  vain, 

Like  a  whirlwind  on  his  spine 
To  the  height  that  they  would  fain, 

Not  by  mountings  serpentine, 
But  in  one  brief  day  attain, — 

Whence,  secure,  they  might  combine 
'Gainst  the  critic,  boor  or  thane, 

Or  shoot,  like  the  porcupine, 
Till  all  enemies  were  slain ; 

When,  as  to  a  far-famed  shrine, 
Would  repair  a  servile  train 

Of  admirers,  to  recline 
At  tlieir  feet,  like  the  insane 

Devotees  who  now  resign 
All  the  wit  they  yet  retain 

To  old  fetiches  malign, 
Inspiration  to  obtain. 

Just  to  meet,  without  repine, 
Polyhymnia's  disdain, 

Or  a  punishment  condign 
From  some  critic,  who  will  gain 

Meed  and  meat  whereon  to  dine; 
Should  old  Pegasus  abstain 


A  %ain)>  April  Day. 

For  his  own  sake,  and  decline 
To  leiid  aid,  lest  he  should  strain 

His  arched  wings,  so  anserine, 
Overmuch,  and  cause  a  blain 

On  his  sides,  to  undermine 
His  sound  health,  that  it  should  wane  — 

Then  these  rhymsters  would  opine 
That  Caliope  should  reign, 

And  not  seek  a  countersign 
From  Apollo,  or  detain 

His  old  nag,  perverse  as  swine ; 
But  Caliope,  as  sane 

As  the  Muses  are  benign. 
Might  be  minded  to  ordain 

That  they  barrel  paraffine, 
Or  go  digging  in  a  drain ; 

Should  Thalia  fall  in  line, 
And  refuse  to  entertain 

Sonneteers  who  would  enshrine 
Fighting  cat  or  squaking  crane; 

Should  Erato,  with  stern  eyne. 
Bid  them  drive  a  baggage  wain 

And  cart  trunks  for  pavonine 
Bride  and  groom,  but  lately  twain ; 

Should  fair  Clio  countermine 
Their  weak  efforts,  and  constrain 

Them  to  ink  drawn  from  the  brine. 
If  they'd  try  historic  vein  ; 

Should  Melpomene  assign  . 

Them  to  sketch  a  hurricane. 

With  a  fury  levautine 
That  would  rend  a  weather-vane; 

SI  ould  Terpsichore  consign 
Them  a  hornpipe  to  sustain. 

In  old  Pluto's  dreadful  mine, 
On  a  burning  counterpane;  — 

Then  these  poets  vulturine 
Might  some  little  sense  regain. 

And  their  skinny  hands  entwine 


83 


84  A  1{ainy  April  Day. 

Round  a  bludgeon-heavy  cane, 

To  stampede  the  Muses  nine 
With  fierce  blows,  laid  on  amain, 

Bringing  groans  and  tears  saline ; 
When  perhaps,  without  a  grain 

Of  "  fine  frenzy  "  to  refine, 
They'd  turn  verses  that  contain 

Nonsense  good  as  mine  or  thine. — 
So  has  passed  this  day  of  rain, 

With  a  sun  that  would  not  shine.* 

*  N.  n.— A  wet  January  day— later.    If  the  reader  can  make  head  or  tail  out  of  all 
this  twaddle,  wilt  he  please  communicate  with  the  writer,  and  oblige  ?— B.  W.  M. 


rtailout  of  all 
— B.  W.M. 


mas 


The  Small  Boy  in  the  Choir. 


85 


THE  SMALL  BOY  IN  THE  CHOIR. 

Who  is  it  that  sings  so  sweetly 

Ev'ry  Sunday  in  the  choir, 
With  his  mobile  face  discreetly 

Calm,  and  bulged  eyes,  that  aspire 
To  impress  you  with  the  notion 

That  he  owns  the  church  entire. 
That  his  voice  swings  all  in  motion. 

From  the  basement  to  the  spire? 

Coming  ambling  into  matins, 

With  his  hymn-book  in  his  hand. 
Plump  he  treads  on  silks  or  satins. 

Which,  he  can  not  understand, 
Should  not  straight  a  highway  offer. 

When  his  squeaking  shoes  command 
The  respect  of  e'en  the  scoffer — 

While  who  dares  give  reprimand  ? 

For  he  is  the  loudest  singer 

In  the  little  village  choir. 
And  his  voice  has  been  the  bringer 

Of  a  consternation  dire 
Unto  ev'ry  stranger  hearing 

That  shrill  voice,  which  naught  can  tire. 
Which  but  mocks  the  hymns  endearing, 

And  sets  all  one's  nerves  on  fire. 


I 


-"■¥'  m 


86  The  Small  Boy  in  the  Choir. 

He  is  strongest  in  tlie  chorus 

And  where'er  the  orKati's  strong, 
When  it  seems  lie  would  throw  o'er  us 

All  the  spell  of  the  glad  song ; 
Yet  I've  often  paused  to  wonder, 

Would  his  voice,  had  I  a  thong 
And  could  dip  hiui  squarely  under 

Stern  Niagara,  hold  out  long? 

Icy  sports  for  scales  he'll   barter, 

That  bis  voice  may  be  enjoyed, 
And  when  chilled,  drinks  like  a  martyr 

Onion  syrup  unalloyed. 
Yet  who'd  think  that  such  perfection 

Soils  his  cuflTs  of  celluloid. 
Or  at  dinner  needs  inspection, 

Lest  with  cabbage  he  be  cloyed  ? 

Who'd  suspect  that  teeth  so  shining 

Could  chew  borrowed  gum  at  school  ? 
Can  this  calm  mind,  so  refining. 

Gnaw  slate-pencils,  'gainst  all  rule? 
Yet  his  breath  smacks  of  infections, 

For  it  wafts  the  perfume  cool 
Of  the  peppermint  confections 

Found  on  Christmas-trees  at  Yule. 

Can  it  be  this  ursine-howler 

Hides  a  fish-hook  in  that  vest? 
Can  he  be  the  self-same  prowler 

That  has  robbed  our  blue-jay's  nest? 
Who  could  see  in  him  the  leader 

Of  the  hoodlums  that  infest 
Laden  orchards  —  and  the  beeder 

Of  the  shot-gun's  sharp  behest ! 

Spite  of  lordly  air  and  ringlets, 

Are  his  pockets  stuflfed  with  string  ? 

Can  he  condescend  to  fling  threats. 
At  the  picnic,  for  a  swing? 


(iiB.«j;.. 


The  Small  Boy  in  the  Choir. 

Could  we  guess  that,  wc.iriiiK  .Sunday 

Ou  one  finger  a  gold  ring, 
When  off  duty  on  a  Monday, 

He  goes  gunning  with  a  sling? 

But,  alas !  he  seems  a  fixture, 

That  no  protest  can  molest, 
A  nightmare,  without  admixture. 

That  leaves  church  and  choir  oppressed. 
"Be  a  choir-boy,"  grandma  Morgan 

Had  as  her  last  wish  expressed; 
And  the  wheezy  old  church  organ 

Was  that  lady's  last  bequest. 


87 


88 


Groiui'i. 


GROANS   KVOKKI) 

DURING  THK   I'KKIOD  OF  THK    I'IKST    FRENZY. 


LK8  Soupihs  d'un  Jouvknckau. 

MARGukRiTK,  niiKiiotine,  tna  liotine,  nia  chin,  m'atnie, 
Si  je  pouvait  te  chercher  aujourd  'hui, 
Si  je  pouvais  baiiier  tea  jouen  si  douces, 
Si  je  savais  que  tu  peiiBasMs  &  Bruce. 


Et  je  soiige  ejue  tu  es  proche  raoi,  A  ma  tnignonne, 
Songe  que  tea  petites  niaina  gout  niises  dans  lea  tniennes ; 
Songe  tea  baisers  brAlent  sur  iiies  jouea  et  l^vres, 
Pendaut  que  ta  voix  dit,  "I  in'auiour,  j'y  auia." 


Whkn  I'd  told  fifteen  years,  or  more, 

I  loved  a  dainty  little  miss. 

Who  charmed  nie  much,  although  so  young. 
Her  years  were  twelve,  and  to  her  clung 
The  airs  of  childhood,  yet  the  grace 
Of  womanhood  shone  in  her  face. 

Our  courtship  brief,  yet  much  of  bliss 

We  knew  in  those  sweet  days  of  yore. 

My  tongue  spake  not  the  love  I  felt, 

My  eyes,  though,  told  it  ev'ry  day; 

And  her  eyes,  answ'ring  mine,  full  well, 
Revealed  the  love  we  could  not  tell. 
So  were  we  happy,  for  we  knew 
No  jealous  doubts,"  no  vows  untrue. 

Maturer  passion's  tyrant  sway 

Had  scorned  the  calm  wherein  we  dwelt. 

A  severed  way,  while  children  yet, 

Wrecked  childhood's  love.     Both  could  forget  I 


n 
it 

n 
t< 
t< 
n 

t( 
d 
n 
t\ 
tl 
h 

Ci 
SI 

ai 

g 
si 


mie, 


e, 
lines ; 


My  First  Proposal. 


MY  FIRST  PROPOSAL. 


A   MOST   UNSATISFACTORY   LOVE-STORY, 

I  FELL  desperately  in  love  with  Mary  Blakely.  I  was 
young,  only  nineteen,  and  she  was  younger,  only  six- 
teen. She  was  beautiful,— at  least,  my  passion  for  her  told 
me  she  was,— amiable,  sprightly,  and  altogether  bewitch- 
ing.    Further,  she  was  poor,  and  so  was  L 

Oh,  how  I  loved  that  girl !  I  could  set  my  mind  on 
nothing,  accomplish  nothing,  for  thinking  of  her.  I  seemed 
to  know  intuitively  when  she  was  coming,  and  on  going 
to  the  window,  would  see  her  pass ;  but  she  seemed  to  be 
near  me  always. 

I  resolved  that  she  should  be  my  wife ;  I  resolved,  further, 
to  become  a  great  man.  To  that  end,  I  would  write  a  won- 
derful love-story,  which  should  be  the  admiration  of  the 
rest  of  the  nineteenth  and  the  whole  of  the  twentieth, 
twenty-first,  twenty-second,  and  twenty-third  centuries.  By 
that  time  my  wonderful  love-story  would  have  become  a 
hoary  antiquity,  like  Shakespeare's  dramas  ;  and,  as  in  the 
case  of  Shakespeare,  there  would  then  be  grave,  fussy,  and 
spectacled  litterateurs  to  comment  on  my  Mary,  my  book, 
and  me. 

I  wrote  slowly,  laboriously,  and  solemnly;  and  as  my  story 
grew  and  grew,  I  loved  Mary  more  and  more.  Of  course 
she  was  the  heroine,  and  of  course  I  took  care  to  make  this 


-«    'H 


^^Hl 


90 


My  First  Proposal. 


so  plain  that  she  could  not  fail  to  recognize  herself.  How 
pleased  she  would  be,  how  honored  she  would  feel,  to  find 
herself  some  day.  the  heroine  of  the  most  popular  novel  of 
the  decade ;  and  when  the  world-renowned  writer  of  this 
novel  should  ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  how  quickly  would  a 
brilliant  wedding  ensue  ! 

Did  she  love  me  ?  As  I  loved  her,  she  must  love  me.  On 
such  an  argument  I  laid  the  foundations  of  my  air-castle.  I 
seldom  saw  her,  except  to  say  "good-day,"  and  could  not 
determine  to  a  certainty  whether  I  had  won  her  love  or  not. 
But  I  trusted  I  had ;  I  tried  hard  to  persuade  myself  I 
had.  At  all  events,  as  soon  as  my  book  should  be  published, 
the  way  to  her  heart  '^i^ould  be  open.  And  with  this  I  must 
be  content  till  the  hour  of  my  triumph  should  come. 

One  day  I  could  not  forbear  telling  her  about  my  book,  add- 
ing that  I  meant  to  send  it  to  Boston  for  publication.  I  hadn'  t 
the  courage  to  tell  her  she  was  the  heroine  of  the  book,  but 
hinted  at  it  darkly  by  saying  I  thought  she  would  like  to 
read  it,  because  there  were  certain  persons  in  it  that  she 
would  know. 

I  often  had  cause  to  be  furiously  jealous  —  at  least,  I  fan- 
cied I  had  cause.  Didn't  she  go  to  school,  and  didn't  every 
boy  in  school  fall  in  love  with  her  ?  Of  course  they  did  — 
how  could  they  help  it  ?  Most  of  the  boys  were  a  year  or 
so  younger  than  she,  it  is  true  ;  but  what  of  that  ?  Didn't 
women  marry  men  younger  than  themselves  365  days  out  of 
the  year?  And  besides,  was  not  the  head  master — though 
as  ugly  as  a  schoolboy's  caricature  of  the  rascal  who  "  tells 
on"  him — an  unmarried  man?  Again,  did  she  not  get  a 
letter  every  week  or  so  ?  The  address  on  these  letters  was 
written  in  a  hand  decidedly  feminine ;  but  what  of  that  ? 
That  was  a  mere  ruse  between  Mary  and  some  mustached 
lover.     (I,  alas  !  had  met  with  nothing  but  disappointment 


self.  How 
^1,  to  find 
ir  novel  of 
ter  of  this 
y  would  a 

'e  me.  On 
r-castle.    I 

could  not 
ove  or  not. 

myself  I 
published, 
:his  I  must 
ne. 

book, add- 
.  I  hadn't 
I  book,  but 
lid  like  to 
t  that  she 

last,  I  fan- 
idn't  every 
tiey  did  — 
B  a  year  or 
t?  Didn't 
lays  out  of 
:r — though 
who  "tells 
not  get  a 
etters  was 
t  of  that  ? 
tnustached 
ipointment 


My  First  Proposal. 


91 


in  my  endeavors  to  cultivate  a  mustache.)  In  fact,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  everybody  was  in  love  with  her,  and  that  she  was 
in  love  with  everybody.     And  yet,  she  was  to  be  my  wife  ! 

One  day,  the  brightest  day  in  my  calendar,  she  said  to 
me,  "  Haven't  you  been  well  lately,  Robert  ?  I  haven't  seen 
you  for  nearly  a  week." 

From  that  time  I  began  to  rebuild  my  air-castles  on  a 
better  foundation.  It  is  to  be  remarked,  also,  that  although 
she  received  a  letter  that  very  day  in  the  feminine  hand- 
writing, I  refused  to  believe  in  the  existence  of  a  mustached 
lover. 

But  I  am  wandering  from  my  starting-point.  I  did  not 
often  see  my  Mary,  but  when  I  did  she  always  said  "  good- 
day"  very  courteously,  and  always  accepted  the  apples  I 
gave  her.  I  have  said  that  I  was  poor.  I  had  no  money 
to  buy  little  trinkets  and  knick-knacks  for  her — I  had  not 
money  even  to  buy  her  caramels.  -But  my  brain  was  pretty 
active  at  that  period,  and  writing  my  wonderful  book  kept 
my  ingenuity  always  in  play.  (What  with  writing,  fancy- 
ing a  lover  in  every  shadow  about  her  path,  plotting  to  cir- 
cumvent visionary  rivals,  and  trying  to  guess  her  thoughts, 
I  all  but  ruined  my  imaginative  powers.)  One  day  I  gave 
her  a  Union  Pacific  railway  map  ;  another  day,  some  home- 
made popped  com ;  still  another  day,  a  little  treasure  of  a 
pop-gun — not  for  herself  but  for  her  little  brother.  I  had 
painstakingly  fashioned  this  pop-gun  myself,  and  covered  it 
with  kisses.  She  would  not  be  able  to  detect  any  trace  of 
these  fond  kisses,  to  be  sure  —  in  fact,  I  doubted  whether 
she  would  ever  know  anything  about  them ;  but  the  gun 
would,  1  icessarily  pass  through  her  hands,  and  if  she  should 
happen  to  kiss  it  —  ! 

At  all  this  the  reader  may  smile  contemptuously.  Very 
good  ;  I  expect  him  to  smile  ;  a  year  before  I  myself  should 
have  smiled  .iloud. 


"'imss 


93 


My  First  Proposal. 


Toward  the  end  of  May  she  seemed  to  grow  weary  of  me. 
The  "good-day,  Robert,"  was  very  distant  sometimes  ;  and 
when  I  yanked  the  forty-fifth  apple  out  of  my  coat  pocket, 
and  began,  "  Here  is,"  she  cut  me  short  with  an  "  oh,  never 
mind,"  and  passed  on.  My  imagination  was  very  active  as, 
sleepless  and  feverish,  I  wore  out  the  night  following  that 
dreadful  day.  I  distinctly  read  a  dozen  letters  addressed  to 
her,  each  one  being  an  offer  of  marriage.  I  vividly  saw  her 
married  over  and  over  again,  but  I  was  not  once  the  bridegroom. 
My  powerful  imagination  pointed  out  that  the  "  mustached  " 
lover  was  my  most  formidable  rival ;  that  he  was  twenty- 
one  ;  that  he  was  an  accomplished  gentleman  ;  that  he  was 
heir  to  a  noble  estate ;  that  he  would  eventually  marry 
Mary.  My  imagination  went  further;  it  told  me  that 
Hubert  (that  was  his  name,  for  Mary  often  said  she  liked  the 
name  of  Hubert)  was  utterly  unworthy  of  her ;  that  her 
married  life  with  him  would  be  thorny  ;  that  in  the  end  he 
would  desert  her ;  that  I  should  then  find  and  snatch  her 
from  her  misery ;  that  she  would  simply  say  to  me,  with 
such  a  piteous  look,  "  Oh,  Robert,  forgive  me  ! "  and  then 
shudderingly  die.  At  this  culmination  of  horrois  I  fell 
sound  asleep. 

But  worse  than  this  was  in  store  for  me.  I  saw  two  or 
three  of  the  youths  of  the  village  escort  her  home  from 
church,  in  a  timid  and  rustic  manner  that  should  have  made 
me  laugh.  But  if  they  had  more  courage  than  I,  how  could 
I  laugh?  It  was  iAetr  privilege  to  do  all  the  laughing. 
Worse  and  worse!  I  saw  her  go  for  a  boat-ride  with  a 
young  curate  and  two  young  ladies  of  her  own  age.  Of 
course  the  dashing  clerical  was  desperately  in  love,  and 
planned  the  boat-ride  for  her ,-  the  other  two  were  but  figure- 
heads, nonentities,  who  had  probably  shoved  themselves  in, 
uninvited  and  undesired. 


a 
d 
o 

e 
e 

S' 


My  First  Proposal. 


93 


ry  of  me. 
mes ;  and 
It  pocket, 
oh,  never 
active  as, 
vring  that 
dressed  to 
/  saw  her 
idegroom. 
istached" 
s  twenty- 
It  he  was 
ly  marry 

me  that 
i  liked  the 

that  her 
he  end  he 
natch  her 

me,  with 
and  then 
ois  I  fell 

iw  two  or 
ome  from 
lave  made 
bow  could 
laughing, 
le  with  a 
age.  Of 
love,  and 
tut  figure- 
iselves  in, 


Now,  I  had  no  boat ;  I  wouldn't  borrow  one — for  I  was  a 
blunderhead  at  rowing,  anyway. 

I  will  not  harrow  up  my  feelings  by  attempting  to  describe 
the  agonies  I  endured.  In  my  desperation  I  resolved  to  lay 
my  heart,  and  hand,  and  unfinished  love-story  at  her  feet, 
the  first  opportunity.  I  had  intended  to  wait  till  I  could  lay 
my  story  printed,  and  through  it  the  world,  before  her ;  but 
now  I  could  endure  suspense  no  longer ;  I  must  know  ray 
fate  at  once. 

I  did  not  encounter  Mary  again  for  nearly  a  week.  She 
seemed  rather  pleased  to  see  me,  and  I  said  huskily,  "I  have 
not  seen  you  for  some  time,  Mary.     I  —  I  — ." 

"  No,"  she  said  slowly,  and  was  slowly  moving  on. 

I  meant  to  propose  then ;  but  we  were  on  the  street ;  she 
seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry.  Of  course  I  could  not  propose,  on 
the  street,  under  these  circumstances ;  no  one,  surely,  could 
expect  it  of  me.  So  that  opportunity  slipped  past.  But, 
making  a  superhuman  effort,  I  said,  "Shall  you  be  at  home 
this  evening  ?    I  should  like  to  have  an  interview  with  you. ' ' 

Her  face  showed  a  little  surprise  and,  it  may  be,  pleasure. 
Did  she  suspect  ?    I  think  she  did. 

*•  Yes,  I  expect  to  be  in,"  she  replied. 

And  so  we  went  our  different  ways. 

The  battle  had  now  begun.  Had  I  the  courage  and,  above 
all,  the  self-command,  to  go  on  to  victory — or  defeat?  I 
devoutly  hoped  so,  but  was  so  dazed  that  I  had  no  clear  idea 
of  anything. 

Very  early  that  evening  I  put  in  my  appearance.  But 
early  as  it  was,  Mary  was  ready  to  receive  me.  Further, 
even  to  my  unpractised  eyes,  she  seemed  to  have  taken 
special  pains  with  her  toilet. 

Surely,  she  expected  an  offer  of  marriage  !  This  so  un- 
nerved me  that  I  could  hardly  frame  what  the  grammarians 


94 


My  First  Proposal. 


call  a  simple  sentence.  Then  Mrs.  Blakely  came  into  the 
room  for  a  moment,  and  greeted  me  with  marked  politeness. 
.My  boyish  verdancy  prompted  me  to  infer  that  she  had  been 
told  something,  and  expected  me  to  propose. 

Now,  all  this  should  have  encouraged  me,  for  if  it  meant 
anything,  it  meant  that  they  regarded  me  with  favor.  But 
my  head  was  dizzy,  and  I  felt  deathly  sick. 

Mary's  mother  discreetly  withdrew,  and  we  were  alone. 

"  How  are  you  getting  on  at  school,  Mary  ?  "     I  faltered. 

"Oh,  ver>'  well,"  she  said  gaily;  "but  I'm  rather  tired 
of  school." 

"  How  are  your  plants  thriving?  "  was  my  next  question. 
"  I  see  they  are  gracing  the  windows." 

"Oh,  they're  coming  on  finely,"  she  replied,  stepping  to 
the  window  and  re-arranging  some  of  the  flower-pots. 

I  had  never  been  in  her  house  before,  and  it  was  some- 
what embarrassing  for  both  of  us.  But  she  was  busying 
herself  with  the  flowers,  while  I  had  nothing  —  not  even  my 
hat.  How  I  wished  that  a  gentle  kitten  or. a  pet  dog  would 
stray  into  the  room,  that  I  might  pick  it  up  and  fondle  it ! 
I  believed  I  could  pluck  up  courage  to  propose,  if  only  my 
hands  were  occupied.  What  big  and  clumsy  hands  they 
were,  to  be  sure ;  and,  yes,  there  was  an  ugly  ink-stain  on 
the  index  finger  of  my  right  hand. 

Apparently  I  thought  I  had  not  yet  exhausted  school  top* 
ics,  and  I  said,  "  How  are  you  getting  on  with  your  French, 
Mary?" 

"I'm  translating  Souvestre  now,"  she  answered. 

"  Did  you  ever  take  up  Latin  again  ?"  I  asked. 

These  idiotic  questions  must  have  been  highly  entertain- 
ing to  her.  But  she  answered  pleasantly,  "No,  not  since 
we  came  to  this  place.  It  is  only  the  boys  that  study  Latin 
here  now,  and  of  course  I  didn't  wish  to  take  it  up  with 
them,"  shooting  me  an  arch  look. 


-^ 


My  First  Proposal. 


95 


into  the 
tliteness. 
lad  been 

it  meant 
>r.     But 

ilone. 
faltered, 
ler  tired 

[uestion. 

>ping  to 
s. 

as  some- 
busying 
even  my 
g  would 
mdle  it ! 
only  my 
ids  they 
stain  on 

lool  top- 
French, 


dtertain- 
ot  since 
ly  Latin 
up  with 


"  No,  of  course  not !  "  I  replied  hastily . 

Now,  if  ever,  I  should  have  had  the  courage  to  ask  the 
vital  question.     But  I  had  not. 

Then  ensued  a  solemn  and  oppressive  silence. 

"  Mary,"  I  said  at  length,  "  I  —  I  thought  you  had  taken 
a  dislike  to  me  lately." 

This  was  so  close  an  approach  to  a  proposal  that  I  trem- 
bled as  I  spoke. 

"Why,  no,  Robert!"  she  said,  coming  back  from  the 
window.  "What  made  you  think  that?  I  always  liked 
you,  Robert." 

At  this  my  nineteen-year-old  heart  beat  furiously  ;  a  dim- 
ness impaired  my  vision  ;  everything  in  the  room  went  spin- 
ning around  in  the  craziest  manner  imaginable.  It  was  hap- 
piness enough  to  be  able  to  call  her  Mary  and  to  be  called 
Robert  in  return ;  but  it  was  thrilling  and  delirious  joy  to 
hear  her  say  that  she  always  liked  me. 

With  an  eflfort  I  recovered  myself.  But  instead  of  pop- 
ping the  question,  as  I  should  have  done  if  I  wished  her  to 
be  my  wife,  I  — answered  the  question  she  had  asked !  •"  Oh, 
I  suppose  I  was  grum,"  I  said. 

Another  painful  pause. 

In  sheer  desperation  I  blurted  out,  "I'll  speak  to  you 
about  it  again  in  about  six  months, — six  or  seven  months, 
—  good  night,  Mary' ' ;  caught  up  my  hat,  and  tore  out  of  the 
house. 

Notwithstanding  my  agitation  I  perceived  that  Maty 
looked  annoyed,  and  her  "good  night"  was  cold  and  for- 
mal. 

Only  those  who  have  passed  through  the  ordeal  can  have 
a  just  conception  of  my  feelings.  As  I  strode  away  I  heaped 
the  most  scurrilous  epithets  upon  myself —  and  yet  I  was 
happy  ;  for  had  she  not  said,  emphatically,  "  I  always  liked 


'  t| 


L 


96 


My  First  Proposal. 


you,  Robert  ? "  If  I  coitld  but  have  had  the  moral  courage, 
she  might  now  be  my  promised  wife.  But  she  loved  me  ;  of 
course  she  did ;  why  else  had  she  spoken  in  that  way,  so 
unhesitatingly  ? 

Did  I  believe  in  "Hubert "  ?  Certainly  not ;  "  Hubert " 
was  but  a  myth.  As  for  the  youths  who  dared  to  escort — or 
rather  shadow — ^her  home  from  church — .  Pshaw  !  The 
good-for-nothing  fellows  loved  her,  perhaps,  (how  could  they 
help  it  ?)  and  she,  perhaps,  liked  them,  in  a  sisterly  way, 
(what  of  that  ?)  but  she  Ipved  me.  As  for  the  young  curate—. 
Well,  he  might  be  her  uncle,  for  all  I  knew,  or  her  cousin- 
no,  cousins  often  marry.  Granted  even  that  he  was  a  rival, 
had  I  not  stolen  a  march  on  him  ?  Mary  loved  me,  even  as 
I  loved  her ;  and  the  clerical  candidate  was  playing  a  losing 
game. 

So  I  could  afford  to  pity  the  young  clergyman,  for  he 
seemed  a  man  who  would  take  a  disappointment  very  hard. 
Yes ;  I  could  pity  him  with  all  my  heart. 

Why  had  I  said,  "I'll  speak  about  it  again  in  about 
six  months"  ?  Such  a  thought  had  never  occurred  to  me 
before— in  fact,  it  must  have  been  the  spell  of  some  presenti- 
ment that  had  constrained  me  to  speak  in  that  way.  Yes, 
it  was  clearly  destined  that  in  six  months'  time  there  wotUd 
be  a  great  change  wrought  in  my  life.  There  would  then 
be  a  period ;  an  epoch.  Certainly ;  I  could  sum  up  the  mat- 
ter in  a  few  words :  Six  months  later,  my  book  would  be  be-  ^ 
fore  the  world  ;  I  should  be  hailed  as  a  second  Dickens  — 
perhaps  it  would  even  be  said  that  I  eclipsed  Dickens  ;  and, 
best  of  all,  Mary  would  be  my  promised  wife,  for  I  should 
then  have  no  hesitation  in  boldly  asking  the  dreadful  ques- 
tion. And  it  might  be  that  my  young  friend  in  holy  qrders 
would  perform  the  marriage  ceremony  for  us,  just  six  months 
from  that  date  ! 


,  .HitMidw  'ntttiil  iHM'KMi  .lOj^  'j» 


My  First  Proposal. 


97 


courage, 

:d  me ;  of 

way,  so 

Hubert" 
cort — or 
v!  The 
>uld  they 
irly  way, 
curate — . 
cousin — 
IS  a  rival, 
!,  even  as 
;  a  losing 

n,  for  he 
ery  hard. 

in  about 
ed  to  me 

presenti- 
ly.  Yes, 
ere  would 
}uld  then 
)  the  mat- 
aid  be  be- 

4 

(ickens  — 
ins ;  and, 
I  should 
Iful  ques- 
oly  qrders 
ix  months 


But,  awful  thought !  why  had  I  subjoined,  "  six  or  seven 
months?"  What  was  the  significance  of  that  addendum  ? 
Was  there  to  be  some  hitch  in  the  presentiment  ?  Was  some 
unforeseen  calamity  to  threaten  me  at  the  expiration  of  six 
months,  or  of  seven  months  ? 

"  Good  evening,"  smote  upon  my  ear. 

With  a  start  I  awakened  out  of  my  reverie,  and,  behold  ! 
my  clerical  rival !  He  was  going  the  way  I  had  come,  and 
I  had  come  from  Mary's  !    Where  was  he  going  but   to 

Mary's  ? 

My  diseased  imagination,  like  a  mighty  engine  too  forcibly 
set  in  motion,  began  to  play  with  a  destructive  velocity  that 
could  not  be  restrained. 

I  lost  track  of  the  young  man,  but  retraced  my  steps  to 
Mary's.  I  came  in  sight  of  the  place  just  in  time  to  see  some 
one  going  backwards  down  the  slat  walk  leading  to  the  gate, 
talking  to — Mary  ! 

My  elaborate  and  beautiful  air-castle  came  '.oppling  about 
my  ears  with  a  crash  that  was  startling. 

They  were  laughing  and  talking  merrily.  Who  was  it  ? 
the  curate,  or  "  Hubert,"  once  more  resuscitated  ? 

I  never  knew;  for  the  figure  on  the  walk  abruptly  took  leave 
of  Mary,  and  glided  away  at  a  rapid  pace.  The  door  slam- 
med to ;  Hooked  up ;  Mary  had  disappeared  in  the  house. 

Then  I  remembered  her  cold  "  good  night "  and  her  look 
of  scorn  as  I  took  leave  of  her,  and  I  again  heaped  abuse 
on  my  head.  "She  will  think,"  I  reflected,  "that  I  en- 
trapped her  into  saying  what  she  did.  What  does  it  all 
signify  ?  In  reality,  nothing.  What  a  downright  fool  I  am ! 
I  will  have  a  definite  answer  !  I  jvill  know  my  fate  !  I 
will  ask  her,  now,  to  be  my  wife  !" 

Without  waiting  for  my  resolution  to  waver,  I  dashed  up 
the  walk  and  the  door-steps,  and  sounded  a  peal  that  made 


mmm£ 


98 


My  First  Proposal. 


my  ears  tingle.     Mrs.  Blakely  came  running  to  the  door  in 
the  liveliest  alarm. 

"  Is  it  fire  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"Is  Mary  in?"  I  asked,  and  brushed  past  her  into  the. 
hall. 

Then  Mrs.  Blakely  recovered  her  composure,  and  ushered 
me  into  the  parlor,  where  Mary  was.  As  the  door  opened, 
Mary,  who  knew  my  voice,  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  began 
playing  softly. 

"  An  air  that  Hubert  loves,"  I  groaned.  But  my  resolu- 
tion was  still  firm. 

Seeing  a  rug  in  disorder,  I  leaned  over  it  and  spread  it  out 
smooth  and  straight.  "Mary,"  I  said,  in  so  sharp  a  tone 
that  she  started,  turned,  and  faced  me,  "if  I  —  should 
become  —  a  famous  fellow,  will  you  marry  me?" 

A  rosy  hue  overspread  her  face,  she  nervously  turned  to 
her  piano,  played  idly  on  three  notes,  and  said  tremulously, 
"Oh,  Robert !    You  mustn't  talk  that  way  !  " 

"Oh,  I'm  in  earnest,"  I  declared. 

A  long  and  painful  silence.  Mary,  with  her  face  turned 
from  me,  pretended  to  be  deeply  interested  in  monotonously 
thumping  away  on  those  three  notes. 

What  had  possessed  me  to  say  "fellow"?  How  com- 
monplace it  sounded,  and  how  it  must  have  grated  on  Mary's 
sensitive  ear.  If  only  I  could  have  written  it,  how  polished 
and  precise  it  would  have  been  ! 

I  broke  the  silence,  saying,  "  I  don't  want  any  promise, 
Mary  ;  I  only  want  to  know  what  you  think  about  it." 

But  the  poor  girl  still  harped  away  at  nothing.  "  I  -wish 
you  hadn't  said  anything  about  it,"  she  at  length  said  peev- 
ishly. 

I  waited  a  moment  longer,  expecting  her  to  stop  that 
hateful  tum-tumming  and  say  something.    But  she  did  not. 


:he  door  in 


T  into  the. 

id  ushered 
or  opened, 
and  began 

my  resolu- 

read  it  out 
irp  a  tone 
t  —  should 

■  turned  to 
imulously, 


ace  turned 
lotonously 

How  com- 
on  Mary's 
w  polished 

y  promise, 
It  it." 

"I  wish 
said  peev- 

stop  that 
le  did  not. 


Ml'  First  Proposal. 


99 


Perhaps  she  was  waiting  for  me  to  exclaim  passionately,  as 
the  orthodox  lover  would  have  done,  "  I  love  you  !  "  But 
I  did  not. 

I  should  have  urged  my  suit  and  received  a  definite 
answer.  Instead  of  this  I  mournfully  said,  "Very  well, 
Mary,"  and  went  hopeless  away,  leaving  her  to  her  sonata 
of  three  notes  and  her  own  meditations. 

And  so  ended  my  first  proposal.  Who  among  us  is  a  hero 
on  that  momentous  occasion  ?  For  my  further  extenuation, 
let  me  urge  it  upon  the  indulgent  reader  to  bear  in  mind 
the  fact  that  I  was  only  nineteen. 

I  can  not  wind  up  by  saying  that  Mary  looks  over  my 
shoulder  as  I  write  these  last  words,  and  gives  me  a  wife's 
kiss.  Alas,  no !  Both  Mary  and  I  are  still  unmarried  ; 
but  the  "great  gulf"  problem  is  here,  and  .such  a  consum- 
mation of  my  idyllic  dream  will  hardly  be  realized. 


H 


"^^T^ip^^^ 


[niir--irr  iuM'HjWft  ' 


lOO 


i:'. 


Gone ! 


GONE! 

GoNB,  as  a  sutiMt  in  Eden, 

Goue  —  and  I'll  see  her  no  more; 
From  ttaia  sad  hour  must  I  ever 

Hopelesiily  her  loss  deplore. 

Gone,  as  a  mad  poet's  vision, 

Gone  from  my  life  as  a  druani ; 

Even  she  doubted  I  loved  her  — 

Ivoved  her,  with  passion  supreme  I 

Gone,  in  her  glorious  beauty. 
Gone,  in  the  magic  of  youth  ; 

Better  I  never  had  spoken, 

Winning  nor  love,  scorn,  nor  ruth. 

Somewhat  'twould  lessen  my  sorrow 
Could  I  know  would  she  forget; 

Somewhat,  to  know  she  once  loved  me. 
Cared  that  I  worship  her  yet ! 

Gone,  as  a  sweet  dream  of  childhood, 
Gone,  and  I  sit  here  alone ; 

Nor  will  some  pitying  angel 
Tell  me  if  years  will  atone. 

Could  I  but  know  an  atonement 
Of  patient  waiting  must  win. 

Through  the  long  years  would  I  suffer. 
As  demons  suffering  for  sin. 


Some  Village  Characters. 


101 


SOME  VILLAGE  CHARACTERS. 

OUR  village  does  not  He  under  the  shadow  of  an  historic 
mountain,  nor  is  it  laved  by  the  waters  of  a  spark- 
ling river.  Alas,  no  !  It  is  bounded  by  millponds,  pasture- 
grounds,  and  cross-roads.  But  its  streets  are  named  ;  its  site 
is  shown  on  all  the  more  ambitious  railway  maps ;  it  gets 
the  daily  papers  before  they  are  two  days  old ;  and  it  can 
boast  (but  does  not)  of  having  given  to  the  world  a  champion 
dog-catcher,  a  combination  corn-doctor  and  horse-trainer,  an 
unsuccessful  mind-reader,  a  Mormon  missionary,  and  a  re- 
tired highwayman. 

Our  village  is  inhabited — inhabited  by  human  beings; 
boys  and  dogs;  cows  and  porkers;  sheep  and  mosquitoes; 
and  certain  insects  that  troubled  Egypt  during  the  fourth 
plague.  It  has  many  buildings — churches,  "commercial 
houses"  (in  truth,  some  of  them  were  houses  once,  and  may 
be  again),  hotels,  dwelling-houses,  ramshackle  sheds,  a  big 
school,  and  more  hotels. 

On  sauntering  out  into  the  streets  of  our  village,  we  im- 
mediately see  a  figure  ahead  of  us.  We  do  not  pass  this 
figure,  because  no  one  was  ever  known  to  pass  it.     It  is  the 


103 


Some  Village  Characters. 


old  woman  in  black,  who  is  always  lugging  about  a  market- 
basket,  and  always  just  ahead  of  you.  Next,  we  discern  the 
town-clerk's  time-worn  dog,  trudging  leisurely  along  in  the 
imperfect  shade  afforded  by  the  "splendid"  new  stores  on 
Waddell's  block,  on  his  way  to  the  shambles,  to  wrangle 
with  other  hungry  dogs  for  a  paltry  bone,  of  which,  ten  to 
one,  he  will  be  despoiled  by  the  postmaster's  over-fed  bull- 
dog, which  we  shall  meet  presently. 

It  is  a  proud  day  for  our  villagers  when  a  son  of  the  soil 
hauls  a  load  of  hemlock  in  from  the  back-woods,  and  gazes, 
with  rapturous  admiration,  at  our  beautiful  new  stores. 
There  is,  in  fact,  but  one  prouder  day  in  the  whole  year  for 
them.  That  is  every  Fair-day,  when  the  village  photog- 
rapher and  watch-maker  draws  his  camero  (as  he  calls  it)  and 
his  other  apparatus  conspicuously  down  opposite  that  pile ; 
presses  a  dozen  little  orphan-boys  into  his  service,  causes  them 
to  lift,  and  strain,  and  groan,  and  whisper  slang  (?),  and 
finally  gets  his  apparatus  into  what  was  the  right  position 
only  to  find  that  old  Sol,  like  time,  waits  for  no  man,  and 
that  it  will  have  to  be  shifted.  But  at  last  everything  is  ar- 
ranged to  suit  the  magnate ;  and,  after  sending  one  little  boy 
to  get  him  a  drink  of  water  (?),  and  another  all  the  way  back 
to  his  ' '  gallery, ' '  on  some  mysterious  errand,  and  two  or  three 
to  every  shop  within  sight,  to  announce  that  operations  are 
about  to  begin,  he  deliberately  takes  off  his  coat,  which 
he  consigns  to  some  adult  bystander  for  safe-keeping,  gives 
his  "camero"  a  final  hitch,  and  takes  a  picture  of  those 
stores.  Although  his  name  and  dual  employment  are  era- 
blazoned  on  his  belongings  in  ornamental  gilt  letters,  the 
villagers  do  not  seem  to  think  that  he  is  advertizing  himself, 
but  patriotically  buy  his  pictures,  and  have  them  framed  by 
the  cabinet-maker  and  sign-painter. 


«f— - 


Sowe  Village  Characters. 


103 


a  market- 
liHcern  the 
3ng  in  tke 
stores  on 
0  wrangle 
ch,  ten  to 
r-fed  buH- 

of  the  soil 
and  gazes, 
sw  stores, 
le  year  for 
',e  photog- 
ills  it)  and 

that  pile ; 
luses  them 
ig  (?),  and 
It  position 

man,  and 
hing  is  ar- 
e  little  boy 
;  way  back 
wo  or  three 
rations  are 
oat,  which 
ping,  gives 
re  of  those 
nt  are  em- 
letters,  the 
Ig  himself, 

framed  by 


But  we  have  wanderrd.  Pretty  soon  we  confrotit  the  man 
who  appears  to  be  always  stepping  out  of  the  corner  hotel. 
He  is  not  a  handsome  felW.v,  not  the  ort  of  personage  the 
editor's  heiress  woulH  select  to  <lope  with  ;  but  he  is  the 
undisputed  owner  of  i,  most  unamiable  rat  terrier  within 
the  town  limits.  This  rat  terrier  is  an  ancient  —a  venerable 
— canine,  but  it  has  none  of  the  milk  of  human  kindtiess  in 
its  gaunt  frame.  Poor  Hero !  He  has  caused  more  boys' 
pants  to  be  prefaced  with  big  patches,  and  stopped  short  the 
course  of  more  sizable  stones,  than  any  of  his  congeners. 

Soon  we  catch  sight  of  a  middle-aged  man  and  woman 
passing  the  compliments  of  the  day  as  they  meet  each  other. 
Judging  by  appearances,  one  would  fancy  they  must  be 
lovers,  though  they  are  rather  elderly  to  indulge  in  the  ten- 
der passion.  On  making  inquiries  it  is  learned  that  presuma- 
bly they  are  lovers — for  they  have  been  engaged  these  eight- 
een years. 

Here  is  Sam  Weller's  Hotel.  Lounging  under  the  shade 
of  a  horse-chestnut  tree  is  a  remarkable  individual,  of  a 
youthful  and  jaunty  appearance.  His  coat  is  off,  but  it  is 
hanging  close  by,  spread  out  so  that  all  its  gorgeousness  may 
be  seen  to  the  best  advantage.  A  pair  of  seven-dollar  shoes 
protects  his  feet ;  a  seven-dollar  hat  is  carefully  balanced  on 
his  artistically  cropped  head  ;  a  seven-dollar  meerschaum  is 
dangling  between  the  second  and  the  third  finger  of  his  left 
hand ;  a  seven-dollar  gold  watch-chain,  freighted  with  not 
a  few  seven-dollar  trinkets  of  ample  dimensions,  fetches  a 
tortuous  course  across  his  natty  vest,  and  disappears  in  his 
vest  pocket ;  a  seven-dollar  diamond  ring  causes  the  fourth 
member  of  his  right  hand  to  stick  out  and  point  jeeringly  at 
a  boy  shying  stones  at  a  stray  feline.  Who  is  this  great 
man  ?  is  asked,  with  bated  breath.     It  may  be  the  proprie- 


,  ^4  Some  Village  Characters. 

tor  of  the  hotel ;  but  no,  it  —  it  must  be  one  of  Thomas 
Nast's  political  comiptionists  from  the  Capital.  "  I  never 
before,"  says  a  stranger,  "  saw  a  man  who  looks  so  like  the 
English  lord  of  the  Bow  Bells. ' ' 

Curiosity  is  great,  but  it  is  soon  gratified.  A  man  who  is 
evidently  no  respecter  of  persons  comes  swinging  along  the 
street,  and  seeks  to  insult  the  seven-dollar  phenomenon  with 
these  opprobrious  words : 

"  Hello,  Jim  !    I  want  to  get  my  hair  cut." 

We  expect  to  see  the  noble  lord  start  to  his  ttet  in  a  burst 
of  awful  anger.  We  expect  to  see,  perhaps,  a  tragedy. 
We  do  not  wish  to  be  impanelled  on  a  coroner's  jury,  but  we 
resolve  to  see  how  this  grandee  will  resent  an  insult.  Per- 
haps he  will  think  the  clown  beneath  contempt,  we  reason, 
and  go  on  peacefully  pointing  his  finger — . 

"  All  right,  Tom,"  he  says,  with  alacrity,  and  away  they 
go,  and  turn  into  a  hair-cutting  "parlor"  round  the  corner. 

In  contrast  to  the  village  barber  is  the  ancient  village 
pettifogger.  In  him  we  find  nothing  of  the  fop— in  fact,  he 
is  ratV  "x  shabbily  dressed.  Large  goggles  and  a  pair  of  star- 
ing eyes  give  him  an  owl-like  air  of  wisdom,  which,  .strangely 
enough,  is  only  intensified  when  he  goes  on  a  wild  debauch. 
Socially  the  superior  of  the  barber,  this  latter  makes  consid- 
erably more  money,  and  is  a  greater  all-around  favorite  with 
the  villagers.  It  follows,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  each 
one  mutually,  and  not  unreasonably,  disdains  the  other. 

Though  quite  unable  to  gratify  his  me^tricious  tastes, 
the  old  pettifogger  has  the  same  inordinate  love  of  gaudy 
jewelry  that  distinguishes  the  barber.  To  be  sure,  he  can 
sport  a  venerable  silver  watch  — and  thereby  hangs  a  tale. 
A  certain  blind  man  of  the  village  incurred  a  debt  of  several 
dollars,  through  a  gross  oversight  on  the  lawyer's  own  part. 


!:1 
lit 


'H-ii^tt,>m^--- 


Some  Village  Characters. 


105 


of  Thomas 

"  I  never 

s  so  like  the 

man  who  is 
ig  along  the 
tmenon  with 


et  in  a  burst 
,  a  tragedy, 
jury,  but  we 
insult.  Per- 
t,  we  reason, 

d  away  they 
i  the  corner. 
:ient  village 
— in  fact,  he 
,  pair  of  star- 
ch, .strangely 
ild  debauch, 
akes  consid- 
favorite  with 
se,  that  each 
tie  other, 
cious  tastes, 
)ve  of  gaudy 
sure,  he  can 
langs  a  tale. 
;bt  of  several 
r's  own  part. 


This  debt  the  blind  man  promised  to  pay  on  a  given  date, 
but  sickness  prevented  him  from  doing  so.  Thereupon  the 
legal  luminary  of  the  village  stepped,  upon  the  scene,  and 
undertook  to  collect  the  money,  "with  costs."  It  was  an 
easy  matter  to  get  a  judgment  against  the  blind  man,  but  an 
exceedingly  difficult  one  to  collect  money  from  him,  since  he 
had  none.  How  did  the  pettifogger  proceed  to  recoup  him- 
self? He  simply  appropriated  a  silver  watch,  which  had 
been  in  the  blind  man's  family  for  three  generations.  "A 
blind  man  has  no  manner  of  use  for  a  watch,"  the  petti- 
fogger argued ;  "and  as  for  his  father  and  his  grandfather, 
that  people  harp  about  so  much — why,  they  are  dead  men, 
and  dead  men  can  pass  the  time  cheerfully  enough  without 
the  aid  of  watches." 

This  line  of  argument  shows  us  that  the  seedy  and  disre- 
garded pettifogger  was  not  only  an  apt  disciple  of  Locke,  but 
an  ideal  humorist,  as  well.  This  expedient  of  his  bears  a 
striking  analogy  to  the  case  of  the  shyster  lawyer  who  wrong- 
fully tried  to  seize  the  hay  crop  of  a  man  who  had  no  horses  of 
his  own  to  feed,  and  again  to  the  case  of  the  Pharisee  who 
got  "r'iled"  when  found  out  in  fraudulently  juggling  a  gun 
away  from  a  youth  who  had  no  leisure  to  shoot  it  off,  except 
on  holidays. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  the  village  pettifogger 
kept  the  watch,  and  that  his  client  appealed  in  vain  for  the 
amount  due  him.  This  incident  is  circumstantially  related, 
because  it  goes  to  prove  that  the  position  of  an  unworthy 
lawyer  in  a  dead  country  village  is  one  of  privation  and 
ignominy,  while  that  of  a  talented  tonsorial  artist  is  one  of 
ease,  affluence,  dignity,  and  immense  importance.  In  a 
word,  a  little  cheap  hair-dye,  in  such  a  place,  is  better  than 
a  brief. 


io6 


Some  Village  Characters. 


Pretty  soon  we  encounter  the^  postmaster's  dog.  It  is  a 
powerful  brute,  with  a  deceptive  smile  on  its  mouth,  a  de- 
ceptive wag  about  its  tail.  It  will  bite  a  shoemaker,  an 
errand-boy,  an  errandless  boy,  a  boy  with  ragged  clothes  on, 
a  boy  without  any  clothes  on  at  all,  an  organ-grinder,  a 
doctor,  a  man  with  a  cane,  a  man  without  a  cane,  an  invalid 
with  three  or  four  canes,  or  a  brass  jewelry  peddler.  It  will 
bite  one  and  all  of  these,  without  remorse  ;  but  it  will  not 
bite  man,  or  boy,  or  scarecrow,  carrying  a  gun,  or  anything 
in  the  shape  of  a  gun.  And  wherefore  ?  Because  in  puppy- 
hood  it  was  shot  twice.  But  the  canine  is  doomed  ;  sooner 
or  later  it  will  die  by  violence.  So  say  the  schoolmaster,  the 
consumptive  wood-sawyer,  the  butcher's  boy,  and  all  the 
hoodlums  of  the  village.  So,  it  is  doomed.  But  perhaps 
"sooner  or  later,"  like  to-morrow,  will  never  come.  It  is 
not  the  dog,  but  the  dog's  master,  that  is  respected  and 
feared.  Perhaps  the  votes  cast  at  the  last  election  may  in- 
fluence the  destiny  of  this  canine  autocrat. 

A  little  farther  on  we  come  up  with  a  meek-eyed  urchin, 
of  the  negativest  of  negative  temperaments,  who  tremblingly 
gasps  out  "yes,  ma'am,"  "no,  ma'am,"  to  everybody,  of 
whatsoever  sex  or  dignity.  No  matter  what  you  ask  him, 
he  doesn't  know,  or  he  doesn't  remember,  or  he  isn't  sure, 
or  he  forgets.  Once  he  clean  forgot  himself,  and  said  he 
didn't  think  he  was  sick. 

The  people  of  our  village  are  so  cultured  that  nothing 
could  induce  them  to  say  anything  they  think  vulgar.  On 
the  hottest  day  in  July,  when  the  mercury  is  boiling  and 
respiration  almost  suspended,  they  meet  one  another  and 
say,  gaspingly,  "Isn't  it  awfully  warm? "  The  more  gen- 
teel among  them  —  that  is,  those  who  have  plodded  through 
the  first  sixty -seven  pages  of  some  one's  grammar,  and  ham- 


b 


Some  yuiage  Characters. 


107 


g.  It  is  a 
outh,  a  de- 
:maker,  an 
clothes  on, 
i-grinder,  a 
:,  an  invalid 
er.  It  will 
it  will  not 
\T  anything 
le  in  puppy- 
led ;  sooner 
[master,  the 
and  all  the 
Jut  perhaps 
ome.  It  is 
spected  and 
ion  may  in- 

lyed  urchin, 
tremblingly 
'erybody,  of 
)u  ask  him, 
e  isn't  sure, 
find  said  he 

[lat  nothing 
irulgar.  On 
boiling  and 
mother  and 
,e  more  gen- 
ded  through 
ir,  and  ham- 


mered the  idea  into  their  head  that  the  suffix  "ful"  is  an 
adjective,  but  that  "fully"  is  an  adverb,  and  that  adverbs 
and  warm  (whatever  th^t  may  be  in  grammar)  are  in  some 
mysterious  manner  connected — say  "awfully  warm  ;"  but 
those  whose  education  has  been  neglected,  shock  the  refined 
ears  of  the  genteelly  educated  ones  by  saying  ' '  awful  warm. ' ' 

Marry,  after  hearing  this  "isn't  it  awful  (or  awfully) 
warm?"  asked  by  perspiring  mortals  on  every  side,  for  days 
together,  how  refreshing  it  is  to  hear  the  gamins  sing  out  to 
one  another,  "It's  hot,  ain't  it,  Bill !" 

According  to  our  villagers,  though  "hot"  is  a  word  fit 
only  for  cooks,  vagabonds,  and  scientists,  "cold"  is  ortho- 
dox, and  expressive  merely  of  chilliness.  About  the  middle 
of  September,  when  the  equinoctial  is  brewing,  and  small 
boys  begin,  reluctantly,  to  leave  oflF  "swimming"  in  the 
creek,  the  genteel  ones  say,  "  It's  cold  to-day,  isn't  it?" 

If  the  villagers  would  drop-  their  scandalous  gossiping, 
leave  off  reading  their  idle  village  weekly  newspapers,  and 
devote  a  little  of  their  wearisome  leisure  to  the  acquisition 
of  just  a  modicum  of  Bostonian — or  even  Leadvillian — cul- 
ture, it  would  be  well  for  them  and  for  their  posterity.  As 
for  awful  and  awfully,  why,  existence  would  be  a  burden  if 
the  use  of  these  two  words  were  forbidden  them.  Why,  they 
would  not  be  able  to  manifest  their  ideas  at  all. 

"The  good  die  young,"  and  the  kindly-disposed  inhabi- 
tants of  this  hypothetical  village  are  so  unobtrusive  that  the 
stranger  is  not  likely  to  notice  them  —although  they  largely 
outnumber  the  others. 

The  moral  of  this  fragmentary  sketch  seems  to  be  that 
while  some  inoffensive  people  are  so  thin-skinned  that  they 
are  sensitive  to  the  least  prick  from  any  spluttering  little 
old  Gitlott  pen,  that  may  have  long  since  spluttered  out  all 


io8 


Some  tillage  Characters. 


its  venom,  others  again  are  so  much  like  a  pachyderm  in 
their  nature  that  they  will  bob  up  sulkily  smiling,  even 
when  sandbagged  by  a  crack  from  a  muleteer's  rude  blud- 
geon. ^ 


K 


yderm  in 
ing,  even 
ade  blud- 


Her  (Majesty's  Customs. 


109 


HER   MAJESTY'S  CUSTOMS. 

I  HAD  been  notified  of  the  arrival  at  the  custom-house  of  a 
box  of  books  for  me  from  England.  I  was  densely 
ignorant  of  the  constitution  and  by-laws  of  that  great  autoc- 
racy of  Canada,  and  imagined  that  all  I  had  to  do  was  to 
dress  with  care,  betake  myself  to  the  custom-house,  present 
my  paper,  and  pay  the  duties.  Then,  of  course,  I  should  be 
able  to  collect  my  goods,  and  go  on  my  way  rejoicing.  This 
shows  how  deplorably  ignorant  I  was. 

I  was  graciously  received  at  the  custom-house  by  a  benig- 
nant, elderly  gentleman,  and  given  some  papers  to  fill  out. 
This  looked  simple  enough  ;  and  as  I  proceeded  to  fill  them 
out  (a  not  difficult  task)  I  mentally  laughed  at  the  cock-and- 
bull  stories  that  had  been  told  me  about  the  red-tapeism  of 
custom-houses.  The  benignant,  elderly  gentleman  moved 
away  from  me  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties,  and  my  work 
of  filling  out  the  papers  was  all  but  completed  when  a  spruce, 
mustacheless  young  man  sidled  up  to  me,  and  politely,  but 
authoritatively,  asked  to  see  my  papers. 

I  weakly  surrendered  them.  The  young  man  smiled  a 
smile  of  profound  pity  for  my  dense  ignorance  as  his  eagle 
eye  glanced  over  those  papers.  He  was  evidently  a  youth 
who,  in  moments  of  confidence,  told  his  friends  and  his  infe- 
riors that  he  could  always  tell  by  instinct  when  aj^reeuhorn 
was  at  large  in  the  custom-house. 

' '  You  are  all  wrong,  my  dear  sir, ' '  he  said  cheerfully.  ' '  It 
would  be  impossible  for  you  to  manage  this  sort  of  thing, 


no 


Her  (Majesty s  Customs. 


anyway.  The  ways  of  the  custom-house  are  peculiar,  you 
know,  my  dear  sir." 

I  replied  that  I  really  knew  no  such  thing. 

"They  are,  sir,"  he  said,  deliberately  tearing  up  the  papers 
he  had  taken  from  me.  ' '  The  proper  way  will  be  to  go  to  Mr. 
■ ,  a  custom-house  broker,  who  will  assume  all  responsibil- 
ity, and  save  you  all  trouble.  If  you  will  mention  my 
name,"  tendering  me  his  card,  "he  will  push  the  matter 
through  without  delay.  And  it  will  cost  you  only  fifty 
cents." 

Then  he  figuratively,  if  not  literally,  put  me  out  of  doors, 

and  very  carefully  pointed  out  the  ofiice  of  Mr. .     Of 

course  it  would  never  do  if  I  should  stumble  into  the  office 
of  some  rival  custom-house  broker !  But,  begrudging  my 
enterprising  young  friend  the  small  commission  he  thought 
he  had  made  sure  of  in  my  case,  I  threw  away  his  card,  and 
did  turn  into  the  office  of  a  rival  broker.  This  goes  to  show 
how  churlish  I  was. 

I  had  considerable  curiosity  to  find  out  what  manner  of 
man  the  custom-house  broker  might  be.  I  was  prepared  to 
face  a  portly,  severe  individual,  who  would  try  to  extort 
some  very  damaging  confession  from  me,  but  who  would 
generously  spare  my  life.  I  was  therefore  somewhat  surprised 
to  find  myself  confronted  by  a  dapper  little  fellow,  ballasted 
by  a  huge  and  extravagant  eye-glass,  but  whom,  for  all  that, 
even  the  slim  senator  from  Virginia  could  easily  have  pitched 
out  of  the  window.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  been  tenderly 
brought  up  on  fish-balls  and  tapioca,  and  carefully  protected 
from  the  sun  and  from  draughty  doors.  I  have  since  made 
an  important  discovery,  to  wit :  that  all  custom-hou.%  brokers 
are  not  cast  in  the  same  mould. 

This  young  man  soon  made  me  aware  that  however  frail 
and  spiritual  he  might  look,  he  yet  rejoiced  in  a  monumental 


I 


L 


Her  (Majesty's  Customs. 


Ill 


:uliar,  you 


the  papers 
0  go  t6  Mr. 
esponsibil- 
ention  my 
the  matter 
only  fifty 

t  of  doors, 

.     Of 

)  the  office 
dging  my 
le  thought 
s  card,  and 
es  to  show 

manner  of 
repared  to 
to  extort 
irho  would 
it  surprised 
',  ballasted 
or  all  that, 
ve  pitched 
n  tenderly 
J  protected 
since  made 
ise  brokers 

wever  frail 
onumental 


intellect,  and  had  ways  and  means  of  scaring  timid  people  al- 
most to  death. 

The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  prove  to  me  that  my  books 
had  been  wrongly  invoiced,  and  that,  in  the  name  of  his 
Queen  and  his  country,  he  was  authorized  to  increase  the 
invoice  price  by  twelve  dollars.  As  the  duty  on  the  books 
was  fifteen  cents  on  the  dollar,  this  did  not  seem  so  very  terri- 
ble, and  I  agreed  to  submit  to  the  overcharge,  after  a  mild 
protest.  I  thought  I  would  give  him  a  fair  start,  just  to  see 
how  far  he  would  presume  to  go  before  I  should  suddenly 
check  him.  That  was  where  I  made  an  egregious  mistake, 
for  he  seemed  content  to  have  raised  and  put  into  the  pocket 
of  his  Queen  and  his  country  the  sum  of  one  dollar  and 
eighty  cents. 

He  now  proceeded  to  lay  before  me  such  a  pile  of  papers 
that  I  marvelled  where  they  all  came  from. 

"  You  will  sign  your  name  and  address,  please;  your  name 
and  address  in  full,"  he  said,  at  last,  taking  up  the  under- 
most paper. 

I  did  so,  remarking  that  I  had  no  objection  to  give  him  the 
range  of  my  shot-gun  and  the  name  of  my  dog,  if  he  so 
desired. 

He  regarded  me  with  withering  scorn,  and  placed  another 
paper  before  me  to  be  signed.  I  perceived  that  these  papers 
were  precisely  the  same  as  those  I  had  been  given  to  fill  out 
at  the  custom-house,  only  that  here  there  were  more  of  them. 
This  was  not  calculated  to  soothe  my  ruffled  spirits. 

"  Don't  you  wish  me  to  fill  out  these  papers  in  full?"  I 
blandly  inquired. 

"No;  it  is  my  clerk's  business  to  do  that,"  he  replied 
haughtily. 

His  clerk !  I  was  astonished  !  But  on  looking  about  me 
I  espied  an  office-boy,  of  tender  years  and  in  all  the  glory  of 


1 


112 


Her  tMajesty's  Customs. 


curly  hair,  pensively  ;hewing  gum  in  a  comer.    So  he  had 
a  clerk,  surely  enough  ! 

A  third  paper  was  spread  before  me,  which  I  was  requested 
to  sign  in  two  places.  Things  were  beginning  to  get  inter- 
esting. I  had  the  curiosity  to  read  a  few  lines,  first  humbly 
asking  permission  to  do  so.  I  had  thought  Blackstone  dry 
and  dreary  reading  —  but  this  ! 

"Where  do  you  get  all  your  census  papers,  if  I  may 
ask  ?  "  I  suddenly  blurted  out. 

A  contemptuous  curl  of  the  lip  was  an  unsatisfactory 
reply,  and  I  made  bold  to  tell  him  so. 

"  I  see,"  I  pursued,  "that  you  have  not  inquired  into  my 
politics,  idiosyncrasies,  or  superstitions.  You  will  doubt- 
less earnestly  wish  to  know  whether  ray  father's  stepfather 
drank  tea  or  coflFee  ;  whether  my  grandmother  said  <?ither  or 
e/ther  ;  and  whether  I  myself  smoke  a  twenty-five  cent  cigar, 
or  chew  plug  tobacco.  I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt  that  it 
will  be  necessary  for  you  to  know  whether  I  brush  my  teeth 
with  'Sozodont,'  or  with  some  obscure  tooth-paste  ;  whether 
I  advocate  cuffs  made  of  celluloid  or  of  eel-skin  ;  whether  I 
prefer  as  a  beverage  hard  cider,  sassafras  tea,  water-works 
water,  or  buttermilk;  whether  I  use  hair-oil,  or  trust  to 
nature  and  the  barbers  to  take  care  of  my  hair ;  whether  I 
prefer  the  music  of  the  hand-organ  to  that  of  the  mouth- 
organ,  or  the  music  of  the  tom-cat  organ  to  that  of  the  organ- 
ette  ;  whether  I  carefully  measure  patent  medicine  out  in  a 
spoon,  or  swig  it  down  by  guess  work  ;  whether  I  wind  my 
watch  when  I  get  up  in  the  morning,  or  when  I  retire  at 
night,  or  whether  I  wind  it  at  fitful  intervals ;  whether  I 
write  my  letters  with  a  cheap  lead-pencil,  or  with  a  fountain 
pen,  and  whether  I  strike  my  relatives  for  postage  stamps, 
or  buy  them  singly  at  drug-stores.  As  I  am  somewhat 
pressed  for  time  to-day,  I  hope  I  shall  not  hurt  your  feelings 


"^^ 


Her  tMajesty's  Customs. 


"3 


3o  he  had 

requested 
get  inter- 
)t  humbly 
:stone  dry 

if  I   may 

itisfactory 

d  into  my 
ill  doubt- 
stepfather 
1  <?ither  or 
:ent  cigar, 
ibt  that  it 
I  my  teeth 
;  whether 
whether  I 
iter-works 
:  trust  to 
whether  I 
le  mouth- 
the  organ- 
le  out  in  a 
[  wind  my 
I  retire  at 
whether  I 
a  fountain 
ge  stamps, 
somewhat 
ur  feelings 


if  I  urge  that  you  should  get  through  with  your  inquisitic- 
as  soon  as  may  be.     In  case,  however,  it  is  necessary  for  m 
to  undergo  a  medical  examination,  or  be  placed  before  an 
insanity  expert,  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  first  to  telegraph 
my  friends  and  prepare  a  brief  obituary  for  my  tombstone." 

This  prompt  manner  of  forestalling  his  programme  seemed 
to  jar  on  the  nerves  of  the  dapper  broker,  while  it  completely 
demoralized  his  "clerk."  I  presume  it  was  not  every  day 
that  they  encountered  a  man  who  could  thus  easily  take 
Time  by  the  forelock  and  get  ahead  of  their  knotty  ques- 
tions. The  young  man  upset  one  of  his  three  ink-bottles, 
and  the  "clerk"  lost  his  grip  on  his  gum. 

"Where  do  you  deposit  all  these  valuable  document^any- 
way  ? "  I  jeeringly  inquired.  ^ 

The  eye-glass  deigned  me  no  reply,  but  the  "clerk,"  on 
whom  I  seemed  to  have  made  an  impression,  gasped  out 
that  the  papers  were  sent  to  .Ottawa.  For  this  breach  of 
discipline  I  am  sorely  afraid  that  the  "clerk's"  magnificent 
salary  was  afterwards  docked  five  cents,  or  maybe  ten. 

"  Are  they  scarce  of  waste  paper  down  there  ? "  I  asked, 
trying  to  be  sarcastic. 

' '  I  meet  with  a  great  many  fools  in  my  experience  as  a 
broker,"  the  young  man  replied  severely. 

I  did  not  retort  by  saying  that  I  also  met  with  a  great 
many  fools ;  I  kindly  and  respectfully  told  him  that  I  was 
very  sorry  for  him. 

Then  he  brightened  up,  and  told  me  confidentially  that 
the  Government  had  of  necessity  to  use  some  formality  in 
collecting  Her  Majesty's  customs.  This  proves  that  it  is 
better  to  be  kind  than  sarcastic  in  dealing  with  the  custom- 
house broker.  If  I  had  retorted  gruffly,  he  would  not  have 
vouchsafed  me  that  piece  of  invaluable  information. 

I  thanked  him  gravely,  and  said  that  if  I  had  known  my 


.  i 


P 


Jm 


114 


Her  tMaJest/s  Customs. 


handwriting  was  to  be  inspected  by  the  Queen  of  Great 
Britain  and  Ireland,  I  should  have  called  for  one  of  his  very 
best  pens. 

However,  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  sign  my  name  two  or 
three  times  more,  and  I  will  venture  to  affirm  that  I  never 
took  so  much  pains  to  write  it  well.  What  did  this  avail 
me,  when  I  could  not  prevail  upon  either  the  broker  or  his 
"clerk"  to  tell  me  which  one  of  all  the  papers  I  had  signed 
would  be  reserved  for  Her  Majesty's  perusal? 

All  formalities  were  at  last  concluded,  and  I  asked,  in  an 
easy,  off-hand  way,  if  I  could  get  my  books  that  afternoon. 

The  ethereal  young  broker  became  indignant  at  once. 
That  afternoon  !  I  might  consider  myself  lucky  if  I  got 
them  inside  of  five  days. 

I  paid  him,  in  lawful  coin  of  the  realm,  $8.30  (which  in- 
cluded his  own  fee  and  the  over-charge),  and  w.'.  ked  out  of 
his  office  with  a  heavy  heart. 

I  am  happy  to  say  that  he  over-estimated  the  time,  as  I 
received  my  books  in  good  condition  three  days  later. 


"^^^^^^^^ 


rl 


of  Great 
f  his  very 


«/f  Disillusioned  Innocent. 


"S 


me  two  or 
t  I  never 
this  avail 
vix  or  his 
lad  signed 

:ed,  in  an 
afternoon. 

at  once. 

if  I  got 

which  in- 
:ed  out  of 

time,  as  I 
ter. 


A  DISILLUSIONED  INNOCENT. 

A  RECHBRCHfe   ALLEGORY. 

AN  observing  young  man,  from  a  tranquil  and  guileless 
country  place,  once  made  his  way  into  a  great  city, 
and  there  made  certain  di.scoveries  that  shocked  him.  His 
secluded  country  life  had  fostered  romantic  ideas  that  he  had 
always  entertained  about  the  habits  and  modes  of  life  of  dis- 
tinguished men  and  well-known  people  generally.  His 
disillusionment  was  so  complete  and  startling  that  he  sought 
out  a  shrewd  old  uncle  of  his,  "who  knew  something  of  the 
ways  of  the  world,  and  unbosomed  himself  to  this  effect : — 

"Why,  uncle,"  he  said,  "I  had  the  curiosity  to  call  on 
the  greatest  newspaper-poet  of  the  day  ;  and  instead  of  find- 
ing a  patriarchal-looking  man,  with  the  beard  of  a  Moses 
and  the  eyes  of  a  pirate,  I  found  a  man  who  looked  hardly 
better  or  worse  than  the  average  New  Jersey  tramp.  He 
was  sitting  by  a  grate,  groaning  and  whining  over  a  vulgar, 
insignificant  com ;  and  there  was  an  unpoetical  look  about 
his  finger  nails,  and  a  shipwrecked  appearance  about  his 
socks." 

"  Exactly,  my  boy ;  and  if  you  had  asked  him  what  he 
had  been  doing  all  winter,  he  would  have  told  you  (if  he 
had  been  honest  enough  to  tell  the  truth)  that  he-  had  been 
trying  to  find  out  how  many  of  the  newspapers  had  copied 
his  poems.  But  perhaps  he  tore-  himself  away  from  the 
grate  after  you  went  out,  and  wrote  a  neat  little  ballad  about 


Il6 


t/1  Disillusioned  Inmcent. 


yourself,  called  'Our  Susan's  Latest  Beau.'  In  that  case 
the  poet  would  forget  all  about  his  corns.  It  is  dangerous 
to  go  about  the  world  intruding  upon  the  sacred  leisure  of 
those  petulant  individuals  to  whom  the  gods  have  given  a 
a  pen.'* 

"And  I  found,  uncle,  that  a  great  railroad  king,  who  has 
more  chimneys  on  his  house  than  our  postmaster  has  dogs  on 
his  farm,  has  a  pimple  on  his  nose,  a  more  heathenish  head 
of  hair  than  a  side  show  Indian,  and  an  eye  that  squints  so 
savagely  that  he  wears  glasses  colored  so  deep  that  he  can't 
see  to  read  the  weather  bulletini>.  Besides  this,  he  wears 
such  shabby  clothes  that  his  own  daughter  hates  to  recog- 
nize him  on  the  street." 

"Again  I  say  exactly,  my  boy  ;  but  instead  of  worrying 
about  these  things,  he  was  probably  figuring  on  how  much 
longer  the  company  could  stave  off  the  expense  of  putting 
up  a  new  freight  shed  at  some  little  station  along  the4ine." 

"And  I  went  to  a  spiritualist's  seance,  uncle,"  pursued 
the  youth,  becoming  more  subdued,  "and  found  that  the 
medium's  breath  savored  of  onions  that  must  have  sprouted 
under  the  bountiful  rains  of  1882,  and  that  he  had  less  sense 
and  less  education  than  a  scamp  evangelist,  and  that  he 
couldn't  materialize  well  enough  to  humbug  even  a  crack- 
brained  believer  in  spooks." 

"Quite  so,  my  dear  boy  ;  and  if  the  hobgoblins  evoked 
had  been  sober  enough  to  perceive  what  a  noodle  was  in  the 
audience,  they  would  assuredly  have  told  you  that  the  shade 
of  Simple  Simon  wanted  to  consult  with  you  at  your  lodg- 
ings on  hydra-headed  asininity." 

"Then,"  continued  the  young  man,  "I  had  pointed  out 
to  me  the  son  of  a  great  philanthropist,  now  dead ;  and  the 
youth  had  just  mustache  enough  to  make  him  feel  uncom- 
fortable and  look  ridiculous,  and  his  only  ambition  in  life  is 


•aj«s» 


t/f  Disillusioned  Innocent. 


117 


that  case 
dangerous 
1  leisure  of 
ft  given  a 

1;,  who  has 
as  dogs  on 
;nish  head 
squints  so 
at  he  can't 
I,  he  wears 
B  to  recog- 

F  worrying 
how  much 
of  putting 
the4ine." 
,"  pursued 
d  that  the 
e  sprouted 
1  less  sense 
id  that  he 
'Xi  a  crack- 
ins  evoked 
was  in  the 
t  the  shade 
your  lodg- 

lointed  out 
i ;  and  the 
eel  uncom- 
>n  in  life  is 


to  criticize  Presidential  appointments  and  be  invited  out  to 
dinner  by  some  old  friend  set  up  in  business  by  his  own  de- 
ceased father  ;  while  a  gaunt-looking  man,  with  an  old  gold 
mustaclu ,  big  enough  and  heavy  enough  to  make  him  look 
handsomer  than  a  peacock  under  full  sail,  is  a  dog-catcher  in 
the  sui.imer  season,  a  snow-shoveller  in  the  winter,  and  a 
quack  doctor  in  the  spring  and  fall,  when  hoarse  colds  and 
influenza  get  in  their  best  work." 

"  My  boy,"  said  the  uncle,  "  you  are  working  your  intel- 
lect too  hard.  Two  years  ago,  you  were  throwing  stones  at 
the  birds,  and  now  you  are  itching  to  give  points  to  old  Rhad- 
amanthus  himself.  You  must  learn  that  while  a  man  who 
is  not  blind  can  see  through  a  pane  of  glass,  it  needs  an  ob- 
server of  fifty  years'  experience  to  determine  whether  an 
unassuming  and  quietly  dressed  stranger,  entirely  off  his 
guard,  is  a  reformed  freebooter  or  a  heartless  railroad  section 
boss.  I^arn,  also,  that  fresh  young  men  who  go  away  from 
home  and  think  they  can  pick  up  everything  there  is  to  be 
known  about  mankind  in  six  years  — not  six  days  — are  far 
from  being  wise.  But,  for  your  encouragement,  I  may  say 
that  you  have  made  commendable  progress." 

But  after  the  young  man  had  gone,  the  uncle  sorrowfully 
shook  his  head,  muttering:  "That  boy  is  a  trifle  too  smart 
for  this  reasoning  world  ;  he  will  soon  be  wanted  elsewhere. 
—  Elsewhere,  where  the  spirits  and  the  mediums  can  call  him 
up  from  the  '  vasty  deep,'  to  tell  flippant  ghost  stories  about 
lunatics  who  never  lived,  and  who  consequently  haven't  had 
a  good  chance  to  die.  I  think  I  must  encourage  the  boy  to 
ease  himself  of  his  Cyclopean  omniscience  and  interest  him- 
self in  municipal  politics." 


vmm 


r 


Il8 


<tA  Modern  Columbus. 


HOW  A  MODERN  COLUMBUS 
DiscovBRBD  Chicago  in  1893. 

CRISTOFORO  COLOMBO  took  naturally  to  the  water. 
Christy,  as  he  was  familiarly  known  to  his  chums, 
when  not  damming  up  creeks  wherein  to  give  his  neigh- 
bors' cats  elementary  lessons  in  swimming,  might  usually 
be  found  on  the  shady  side  of  the  wood-pile  of  his  ances- 
tral home,  which  nestled  cozily  under  the  segis  of  that  por- 
tion of  South  Chicago  lying  on  the  Kankakee  River,  only  a 
short  journey  from  the  heart  of  the  World's  Fair  City.  (At 
least,  the  time-tables  of  the  Chicago,  Moon  Crater,  and  Solid 
Sun  Air  Line  represented  it  as  only  a  short  ride ;  but  to 
Christy's  childish  mind  it  seemed  so  far  that  he  yielded  when 
his  mother  whipped  him  out  of  the  notion  of  ever  attempt- 
ing to  walk  there.) 

Christy  did  not  loiter  under  the  shadow  of  the  wood-pile 
for  the  purpose  of  rasping  the  family  buck-saw  through 
hemlock  slabs,  because  Italian-American  genius  does  not 
manifest  itself  in  that  way.  When  Chri.sty  was  not  carving 
out  hopelessly  unsalable  puppets,  he  was  either  "discover- 
ing "  fish- worms  in  the  moist  soil  by  the  wood-pile,  or  indus- 
triously combing  his  head  with  his  slender  and  delicate 
nails. 

EVEN   HERB   HB  MADE  DISCOVERIES, 

and  nerved  himself  for  a  future  life  of  peril  and  vicissitude. 
But  Christy  did  not  take  kindly  to  fishing,  exce  )t  that  it 


L 


e/f  Modern  Columbus. 


ng 


JS 


the  water. 
tiis  chums, 

his  neigh- 
;ht  usually 
'  his  ances- 
if  that  por- 
iver,  only  a 
■City.  (At 
r,  and  Solid 
de ;  but  to 
elded  when 
er  attempt- 

;  wood-pile 
w  through 
IS  does  not 
not  carving 
"discover- 
le,  or  indus- 
ad  delicate 


vicissitude. 
:e)t  that  it 


lured  him  to  the  water  ;  and  he  would  dream  away  the  long 
summer  afternoons  in  wondering  how  old  he  would  need  to 
be  before  he  could  work  the  legislature  of  Illinois  for  a  sub- 
sidy to  sail  out  into  space  on  an  expedition  of  discovery  and 
glory. 

One  Friday  afternoon  it  struck  Christy  that  he  would  send 
out  a  messenger  into  the  g^at  unknown  world,  and  patiently 
live  on  bananas  till  its  return.  For  the  messenger  he  chose 
was  a  fish,  and  his  scheme  was  to  insert  in  the  tail  of  said 
fish  his  father's  sole  remaining  ear-ring.  The  return  or 
non-return  of  this  fish  must  irrevocably  fix  Christy's  destiny, 
for  he  had  resolved  to  stake  his  future  on  the  issue,  and 
would  abide  by  it.  In  this  way:  If  the  fish  returned  without 
the  token,  it  would  prove  that  the  world  is  a  dishonest  one, 
find  that  Christy  would  need  to  exercise  caution  and  judg- 
ment in  his  wanderings ;  if  the  fish  returned  with  it,  it 
might  prove  either  that  the  world  is  an  honest  one,  or  that 
it  does  not  properly  value  Renaissance  jewelry,  and  that 
Christy  would  be  justified  in  sallying  forth  to  teach  mankind 
the  exalted  delights  of  Bohemianism  ;  and  lastly,  if  the  fish 
never  returned  at  all,  it  would  be  Christy's  bounden  duty  to 
go  iu  quest  of  it  and  his  father's  lost  ear-ring. 

Of  course  the  elder  Colombo  could  not  be  persuaded  to 
part  with  so  valued  a  jewel,  as  Christy  well  knew.  But  the 
child  of  sunny  Italy,  though  foreign-bom,  was  sharp  enough 
to  be  aware  of  the  fact  that  his  parent  fiiequently  took  his 
siesta  with  his  jeweled  ear  unprotected,  and  seized  such  an 
opportunity  to  despoil  him  of  the  ring.  On  what  trifles, 
and  from  what  ears,  does  our  destiny  depend  ! 

Cristoforo  Colombo  well  knew  this  to  be  an  unfilial  and 
machiavelian  act ;  but  if  the  fish  returned  with  the  jewel  all 
would  be  well,  and  he  could  set  out  under  a  good  augury. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  the  jewel  never  showed  up,  a  wicked 


wmmtam^mim 


ssaa 


I20 


e/f  Modern  Columbus. 


world,  not  Cristoforo,  would  be  at  fault.  But  in  order  to 
tranquilize  his  tender,  South  Chicago  conscience,  he  resolved 
to  make  a  good  catch  offish  that  very  afternoon  for  the  fam- 
ily table. 

The  fish  was  ear- ringed  —  or  rather,  fin-ringed  —  and  suf- 
fered to  swim  away.  But  the  elder  Colombo  at  once  missed 
the^<ya,  and  taxed  Christy  with  petty  larceny.  The  young 
hero  acknowledged  his  guilt,  but  pleaded  his  lofty  and  dis- 
interested motives.  He  also  pleaded  patriotism,  the  duty  of 
parental  sacrifice,  the  necessity  of  having  a  good  augury, 
and  everything  else  that  genius  and  a  precocious  Western 
intellect  could  suggest.  All  in  vain  ;  both  parents  were  in- 
consolable. 

The  greatest  achievements  and  discoveries  come  about  from 
trifles  ;  and  this  boyish  misdemeanor,  so  promptly  found  out, 
was  to  result  in  one  of  the  most  unexpected  and  sinister 
events  of  modem  times  — 

THE  DISCOVERY  OF  CHICAGO 

and  its  whereabouts  !  For  the  young  Cristoforo  (as  he  must 
now  be  called)  at  once  packed  his  pockets,  in  default  of 
having  any  trunks,  took  his  jack-knife  used  in  image-carving 
and  in  beheading  Kankakee  River  fish,  rubbed  himself  with 
three  or  four  bottles  of  honest.  Eastern-made,  thoroughly- 
advertised  liniments,  bade  a  tearful  farewell  to  the  moon- 
kissed  wood-pile,  and  left  his  lovely  home  and  attic  cot,  to 
sleep  all  night  in  a  neighbor's  wheelbarrow,  preparatory  to 
a  triumphant  start  on  the  morrow. 


t 


in  order  to 
he  resolved 
or  the  fam- 

—  and  suf- 
>nce  missed 
The  young 
ty  and  dis- 
the  duty  of 
3d  augury, 
IS  Western 
its  were  in- 

about  from 
'  found  out, 
md  sinister 


'as  he  must 
1  default  of 
ige-carving 
limself  with 
thoroughly- 
the  moon- 
ittic  cot,  to 
iparatory  to 


To  Baby  Frederica. 


121 


TO  BABY  FREDERICA. 

Oh,  so  full  of  cunning  capers 

Is  this  little  baby  girl, 
With  her  golden  head  and  blue  eyes. 

And  her  face  as  white  as  pearl. 
All  day  long  she  is  so  busy, 

Hardly  can  she  go  to  bed ; 
And  her  ways  are  all  so  boyish 

That  we  call  her  baby  Fred. 

Scarcely  spares  the  time  for  breakfast. 

Does  this  busy  little  girl ; 
If  she'll  not  eat,  nor  shall  others. 

And  the  table's  in  a  whirl. 
But  we  love  her  all  so  dearly, 

From  grandma  to  Uncle  "  Boo," 
For  her  winning  smile  and  goodness — 

TUough  she  has  a  temper,  too! 

First  of  all  to  finish  dinner. 

She  will  run  for  grandma's  hand. 
And  will  lead  her  from  the  table. 

For  she  can  not  understand 
That  her  grandma  can  not  always 

Speud  the  livelong  day  in  play. 
.Do  we  ask  her,  what  says  ducky, 

"  Cack,  cack,  cack,"  is  what  she'll  say. 


122 


To  Baby  Frederica. 

When  we  ask  her  who's  a  good  girl, 

'*Boop"  is  what  she'll  sometimes  say, 
For  her  books  are  her  chief  pleasure, 

And  she  plays  with  them  all  day. 
Did  she  go  to  see  her  auntie? 

She  will  straightway  answer  "c'oak," 
While  she  pats  her  dress  to  show  us 

That  she  did,  and  wore  her  cloak. 

If  you  ask  of  her  a  favor 

Quickly  run  her  little  feet ; 
She  is  very  kind  to  dolly, 

And  tries  hard  to  make  her  eat. 
Much  she  loves  the  shadow  baby 

That  she  sees  upon  the  wall ; 
But  she  loves  great-grandma's  album, 

We  are  sure,  the  best  of  all. 


To  Margarita. 


taj 


»ay, 


k," 


TO  MARGARITA, 

Sweetheart,  i  love  your  winsome  face, 
Your  soft,  dark  eyes,  yonr  witching  grace, 
Your  artless  ways,  your  heart  sincere. 
Your  many  charms,  which  all  endear. 
My  jealous  heart  can  have  no  fear. 
If  in  your  love  it  have  a  place.     . 


You  have  bewitched  me  with  your  smiles, 
Your  laughing  voice,  that  swift  beguiles, 
Your  pouting  lips,  that  coy  invite 
A  bold  attempt  from  frenzied  wight 
Castilian  sonnets  to  indite — 
Though  I  would  draw  my  sword  the  whiles. 

Carissima,  I  love  yon  well, 

I  love  you  more  than  verse  can  tell. 

Wed  with  me ;  do  not  say  me  nay ; 

Turn  not  my  joy  into  dismay; 

Wed  with  me  on  this  happy  day, 
And  glad  will  ring  our  marriage-bell. 

BelovM,  say  you'll  be  my  own, 

My  wife,  ere  yet  this  day  has  flown. 

Your  sparkling  eyes  shall  know  no  tears. 

Your  sun-lit  locks  will  mock  the  years. 

E'en  Time  can  bring  naught  but  which  cheers; 

Your  fame  I'll  spread  from  zone  to  zone. 

Not  for  a  span  of  time,  soon  fled. 

Not  for  this  life  alone  we'll  wed ; 

When  this  world's  sunshiue  disappears, 
Together  in  the  brighter  spheres. 
Throughout  eternal,  tranquil  yep.rs. 

Our  spirit  life  may  still  be  led. 


jg^jglpar- 


"4 


How  I  Loved  and  Lost  my  Nelly. 


HOW  I  LOVED  AND  LOST  MY  NELLY. 


He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers ; 
She  was  his  voice ;  he  did  not  speak  to  her, 
But  trembled  on  her  words. 


-BVKON. 


To  Boyhood's  Swbbt  Dream, 

Thesb  Ruggbd  Lines 

Are  REUGioustv  Dkdicateu. 


10 


15 


20 


In  niy  youth  I  loved  a  maiden, 
Ix>ved  a  laughing,  blue-eyed  maiden. 
Who  was  very  fair  to  look  on ; 
Of  a  quiet  disposi'Jon ; 
Even  temper;  candid;  loving. 

As  I  loved  her,  so  she  loved  me ; 
And  though  we  were  both  but  children. 
She  but  fourteen,  I  but  sixteen. 
Yet  our  hearts  were  knit  together 
In  a  firmer  bond  of  union 
Than  is  oft  rehearsed  in  story. 

All  my  thoughts  were  of  my  sweetheart ; 
All  my  plans  to  her  confided ; 
All  her  pleasures  were  my  pleasures. 
And  at  school  I  sat  and  watched  her, 
With  my  open  books  before  me ; 
But  my  thoughts  were  of  the  future, 
Of  the  day  when  I  should  proudly 
Lead  her  up  before  the  altar ; 
And  my  pref 'rence  was  so  open 
That  the  master  and  my  schoolmates 
Came  to  see  it,  came  to  know  it ; 


LLY. 


-BVRON. 


IT  Drdicatbu. 


t; 


Haw  I  Loved  and  Lost  my  Nelly. 

Called  me  bridegroom,  called  me  husband, 
Jeered  me,  watched  me,  and  alarmed  me, 
as  Lest  they  should  estrange  my  Nelly. 

But  my  faithful  little  sweetheart 
Only  laughed  at  all  their  sallies. 
Only  bade  them  to  our  marriage. 

How  I  loved  my  little  sweetheart 
30  In  those  happy  days  of  boyhood ! 

But  there  came  a  rude  awak'ning 
When  her  father,  Nelly's  father. 
Heard  the  rumor  of  our  courtship. 

He  was  sad,  and  stem,  and  haughty, 
36  And  it  grieved  bint  and  incensed  him 

That  his  child,  his  darling  Nelly, 
At  her  age  should  choose  a  lover. 
Should  receive  one  as  a  lover, 
Who  lacked  fortune,  fame,  and  honor,— 
40  For  my  father  once  in  anger 

Had  shot  down  a  fellow-mortal ; 
And  he  harshly  did  enjoin  her, 
Under  pain  of  close  immlirenient. 
To  forget  that  I  existed ; 
45  And  made  ev'ry  preparation 

For  a  sojouni  in  the  Old  World. 
On  the  eve  of  their  departure 
I  received  a  tear-dimmed  letter 
From  my  darling  little  sweetheart. 
50  "Faithful  unto  death,"  was  written  ; 

"  We  must  wait  my  father's  pleasure, 
We  must  wait  in  hope  and  patience.— 
Just  one  glimpse  as  we  are  leaving." 
As  their  train  drew  ofiF  that  evening 
55  I  was  standing  close  beside  it ; 

And  she  whom  I  loved  so  madly 
Leaned  her  head  out  of  the  carriage. 
Waved  a  kiss,  and  dropped  a  packet. 
Her  farewell  salute  returning, 
60  I  took  up  the  precious  packet ; 


125 


1 3b 


How  I  Loved  and  Lost  my  Nelly. 


And  my  idol,  my  beloved, 
In  a  moment  was  borne  from  me. 
"Just  one  glimpse,"  it  was,  too  surely! 
In  the  packet  were  her  picture, 

65  Her  gold  ring,  her  opal  locket. 

With  her  name,  and  date,  the  legend, 
"  As  a  souvenir  of  the  old  days." 
Thus  I  parted  from  my  Nelly, 
In  the  golden  days  of  August, 

70  When  the  world  was  rare  with  beauty, 

And  all  Nature  bright  with  sunshine ; 
Hardest  parting,  strangest  courtship. 
Ever  blighting  two  fond  lovers. 

All  my  dreams  were  of  my  loved  one, 

75  All  my  life  was  very  lonely. 

All  my  days  passed,  ah !  so  sadly. 

As  the  days  passed,  so  the  years  passed. 

Slowly,  wearily,  and  sadly. 

And  I  chafed  at  our  long  parting. 

80  But  at  last  there  came  a  message 

From  my  absent,  loving  Nelly, 
,  Breathing  still  her  fond  devotion, 

Biddiiig  me  to  hope  on  ever. 
As  true  love  must  be  rewarded. 

85  "Send  no  answer,"  she  concluded, 

"For  it  would  be  intercepted." 

If  with  me  the  time  passed  slowly, 
If  for  me  the  days  were  lonely, 
If  for  me  the  burden  heavy, 

90  How  much  more  so  for  my  Nelly ! 

The  mementoes  she  had  left  me, 
The  assurance  she  still  loved  me, 
€beered  me,  iu  my  deepest  sorrow. 
Fired  my  heart  with  hope  and  courage; 

95  And  the  merry  laugh  of  schoolboys. 

And  the  joyous  song  of  wild  birds. 
And  the  shrieking  of  express  trains 
As  they  dashed  through  midnight  blackness. 


m 

100 

li 

»o5 
no 

"5 

I20 
125 

* 

130 


«35 


How  I  Loved  and  Lost  my  Nelly. 

And  the  crash  along  the  Ma-shore, 
And  the  vivid  flash  of  lightning. 
And  the  moon  through  mountain  passes, 
Seemed  to  whisper,  seemed  to  tell  me : 
"Days  of  happiness  and  sunshine 
Will  come  to  you  in  the  future." 

But  sometimes  there  came  a  murmur, 
Came  a  Voice  from  unknown  darkness. 
Mocking  ever  came  it  to  me: 
•"Tis  a  false  hope  that  you  cherish, 
•Tis  a  phantom  you  are  chasing." 

Oft  I  sought  relief  in  travel, 
Oft  I  followed  Nelly's  footsteps, 
But.  alas!  not  once  I  saw  her. 
Still  my  restless,  troubled  spirit 
Urged  me  aimlessly  to  wander, 
Urged  me  on,  a  worse  than  outcast. 

Changing  scenery,  Old  World  splendors, 
Could  not  cure  my  rooted  sorrow, 
Brought  my  anguished  heart  no  solace. 

To  wipe  out  the  .old'  dishonor, 
To  remove  her  father's  hatred. 
And  secure  Lis  full  approval 
Of  a  marriage  with  his  daughter, 
I  sought  fame,  and  wealth,  and  honors, 
Worked  with  dauntless  resolution. 
Waited,  pondered,  brooded,  trusted. 

Built  air-castles,  nursed  my  sorrows. 
When  I  next  heard  of  my  Nelly 

News  came  to  mw  she  was  married, 

Forced,  unwilling,  by  her  father 

Into  marriage  with  a  marquis. 
As  a  thunderbolt  all-blasting. 

As  a  whirlpool  all-engulfing. 

So  these  tidings  fell  upon  me. 

What  to  me  were  fame  and  fortune? 

What  to  me  were  empty  honors? 

What  to  me  that  light  was  breaking? 


197 


ia$ 


How  I  Loved  and  Lost  my  Nelly. 


I  had  lo»t  my  darling  Nelly. 

This  last  sorrow  overtook  me 

In  the  days  of  drear  November, 
140  When  the  chilling  rains  of  heaven 

Blurred  the  landscape,  marred  all  Nature ; 

When  the  birds,  with  drooping  feathers, 

Tripped  about  in  groups  of  twenties, 

Bager  to  begin  their  journey 
145  To  the  sunshine  of  the  Southland. 

On  that  fatal  day  the  storm-gods 

Seemed  to  rise  in  pain  and  fury; 

All  the  skies  were  black  and  angry. 

All  the  air  was  full  of  threat'nings, 
130  All  dumb  creatures  were  uneasy, 

All  things  showed  a  coming  tempest. 
All  my  passions  glowed  within  me 

Like  a  mutinous  volcano  ; 

And  unable  to  control  them, 
155  I  rushed  forth  to  brave  the  tempest. 

And  the  bleak  and  naked  meadows, 

And  the  leafless  trees  of  woodlands. 

And  the  boiling  mountain  torrents. 

Seemed  attuned  to  my  own  sorrows, 
160  Seemed  in  sympathy  to  greet  me. 

I  could  hear  the  awful  tempest 

Roaring  in  the  distant  forest 

L,ike  a  monster  in  his  torment ; 

While  the  trees  moaned  and  the  brutes  moaned, 
165  As  I  hurried  headlong  onward. 

I  had  but  one  thought  to  guide  me. 

That  I  must  reach  some  endeared  place. 

Reach  a  sacred  haunt  of  old  days, 

Where  I  first  had  seen  my  Nelly, 
170  There  to  wait  the  tempest's  fury. 

With  this  single  thought  to  guide  me, 

I  betook  me  to  the  streamlet 

Which  we  two  had  crossed  together 

Daily  as  we  loitered  schoolward. 


How  I  Loved  and  Lost  my  Nelly. 


ia9 


ined. 


175  And  the  alders  by  the  streamlet, 

Fanned  by  zephyrs  of  the  summer, 
Lashed  by  whirlwinds  of  November, 
Seemed  to  beckon,  seemed  to  call  me, 
Cried  in  tones  severe,  yet  pleading, 

180  Tones  impetuous,  yet  plaintive. 

As  a  caged  bird's  moumfnl  singing : 
"  '  Twas  a  vain  chase  after  triumph  ; 
'  Twas  too  much  you  sought  in  this  world ; 
It  was  Heaven  on  earth  you  asked  for." 

185  Ghostly  figures  shape  before  me ; 

Ghostly  eyes  look  on  me  sadly; 
Ghostly  fingem  mutely  beckon ; 
And  the  spirit  Voice  hoarse  whispers: 
"  Life  for  you  is  but  a  mock'ry, 

190  Death  the  sole  release  to  wish  for." 

"Oh,  my  God  !"  I  cry  in  anguish, 
"  I  have  borne  my  heavy  burdens, 
I  have  wrestled  with  my  sorrow, 
Till  my  strength  is  all  gone  from  me ; 

195  Hear  my  prayer,  oh,  let  me  perish  ! " 

And  the  merciful  Creator, 
With  Divine  commiseration 
For  my  mis'ry  and  my  weakness. 
Loosens  and  dissolves  the  tenure 

.  x>  Of  this  earthly  life  he  gave  me. 

I  am  dying — all  is  over. 


«3« 


How  I  Loved  and  Lost  my  Jantt. 


HOW  I  LOVED  AND  LOST  MY  JANET. 


A  BUKL,KSUUK  VBRSION  OV  HOW  THINGS  WOULD  UAV8  TuKNBO  OUT. 


*    *    *    *    My  life  hnlh  been  a  combat, 
And  every  thought  a  wiMiiid,  till  I  am  icarr'd 
In  the  Immortal  part  of  mr. 


-BvaoN. 


ID 


«5 


ao 


To  My  Evil  Gsnius, 

Thksh  Rustic  Lines 

Ark  Sardonically  Dedicated. 

In  my  youth  I  loved  a  maiden, 
Loved  a  giggling,  crou-eyed  maideu. 
Who  was  homely  as  a  wild  cat ; 
Of  a  giddy  disposition  ; 
Gusty  temper;  gushing;  spooney. 

As  I  loved  her,  so  she  loved  me ; 
And  though  we  were  both  but  goslings. 
She  but  fourteen,  I  but  sixteen. 
Yet  our  hearts  were  knit  together 
In  a  firmer  bond  of  union 
Than  a  three-ply  homemade  carpet. 

All  our  plums  I  gave  my  sweetheart ; 
All  my  gum  with  her  divided ; 
All  her  melons  were  my  melons. 
And  at  school  I  sat  and  watched  her, 
With  my  idle  knife  before  me; 
But  my  thoughts  were  of  the  future, 
Of  the  day  when  I  should  fiercely 
Dicker  with  Niagara  hackmen. 
And  my  spooning  was  so  open 
That  the  master  and  my  schoolmates 
Came  to  see  it,  came  to  know  it ; 


ET. 


'uRNSo  Out. 


— BVHON. 


DICATED. 


How  I  Loved  ami  Lost  my  JantL 

Called  nie  Mpgo^.  called  iiic  Janet, 
"Chari varied"  iiie,  and  alarmed  me, 

>g  I<c»t  Uiey  •tiould  cut  off  my  meloHS. 

But  my  grinning  little  awectlieart 
Only  tittered  at  their  aalliea. 
Only  bade  them  mind  their  busineas. 
How  I  loved  my  little  sweetheart 

30  In  those  oatmeal  days  of  dad's  clothes  I  * 

But  there  came  a  birchen  whaling 
When  her  father,  Janet's  father, 
Heard  the  rumor  of  our  mooning. 

He  was  glum,  and  bald,  and  big-eared, 

35  And  it  rattled  him  and  "  r'iled  "  him 

That  hia  child,  hia  squint-eyed  Janet, 
At  her  age  should  choose  her  own  beau, 
Should  receive  one  as  her  lover 
Who  lacked  gumption  and  hia  liking, — 

40  For  my  father  once  in  anger 

Had  upset  the  old  man's  scarecrows; 
And  he  harshly  did  enjoin  her, 
Under  pain  of  no  more 'earrings. 
To  forget  that  I  existed ; 

45  And  mnde  ev'ry  preparation 

For  a  sponge  on  his  relations. 

On  the  eve  of  their  departure 
I  received  a  pie-stained  letter 
Prom  my  hungry  little  sweetheart. 

50  "Now,  old  slouch,  good-bye,"  was  scribbled; 

"We  must  wait  till  paw's  relations 
Tire  of  keeping  two  such  eaters. — 
Just  one  stare  as  we  are  leaving." 

As  their  train  jerked  off  that  evening 

53  I  was  standing  close  beside  it ; 

And  she  whom  I  loved  so  daflly 
Craned  her  head  out  of  the  carriage, 
Made  wry  faces,  shied  a  packet. 
Her  farewell  salute  returning, 

60  I  secured  the  well-aimed  packet; 


'3« 


*Thi«  leems  somewhat  obKur.'.  The  meaninK  is: 
principally  on  oatmeal  porridge,  and  strutted  about  in 
raiment.— B.  W.  M. 


when  the  hero  lived 
his    father's    rejected 


132 


How  I  Loved  ami  Lost  my  Janet. 


65 


70 


75 


80 


84^ 
85 


90 


95 


And  the  old  "  accommodiiUoii " 

Slowly  rumbled  off  my  idol. 

"Just  one  start,"  it  was,  too  surely ! 

In  the  packet  were  her  thimble, 
Her  bead  ring,  her  pet  dog's  collar, 
With  her  name  and  date,  the  legend, 
"You  can  swap  these  for  some  fish-hooks." 

Thus  I  parted  from  my  Janet, 
In  the  torrid  heat  of  dog-days. 
When  the  roads  were  rank  with  tired  tramps, 
And  all  Nature  with  mosquitoes ; 
Quickest  parting,  crudest  courtship. 
Ever  teasing  two  green  lovers. 

All  my  dreams  were  how  to  manage 
To  secure  another  sweetheart ; 
All  my  days  passed  hoeing  turnips. 
As  the  days  passed,  so  the  hours  passed. 
Torrid,  leisurely,  and  dusty. 
And  I  chafed  at  so  much  hoeing. 

But  at  last  there  came  a  message 
From  my  absent,  squint-eyed  Janet, 
Breathing  still  her  breath  of  spruce  gum. 
Bidding  me  look  out  for  two  things: 
She  had  found  some  one  to  spark  her, 
And  her  paw  was  getting  homesick. 
"  Send  no  answer,"  she  concluded, 
"For  you  can  not  pay  the  postage." 

If  with  me  time  would  spin  onward. 
If  in  spite  of  all  men's  eflforts 
Headstrong  Time  tvould  reel  off  days'  lengths, 
Why  not  also  with  my  Janet  ? 

The  mementoes  she  had  left  me, 
The  assurance  she  still  liked  me, 
Cheered  me  when  my  chores  were  hardest, 
Fired  my  heart  to  fight  the  red-skins ; 
And  the  merry  laugh  of  jackdaws, 
And  the  joyous  song  of  ravens, 
And  the  chuckling  of  Vermont  tramps 
As  they  roamed  about  on  freight  trains. 


)8, 


ths, 


How  I  Loved  and  Lost  my  Janet. 

And  the  crash  or  breaking  soup-plates, 

ICO  And  the  vivid  flash  of  lanterns, 

And  the  moonbeams  on  the  wood-pile. 
Seemed  to  whisper,  seemed  to  tell  me : 
"Days  of  house-cleaning  and  cold  ham 
Will  come  to  you  in  the  future." 

105  But  sometimes  there  came  a  war-whoop. 

Came  a  sneer  from  gaunt  mosquitoes. 
Mocking  ever  came  it  to  me : 
"  'Tis  dyspepsy  that  you  cherish, 
'Tis  a  mince  pie  you  are  chasing." 

1 10  Oft  I  sought  relief  in  fishing. 

Oft  I  ran  away  a-shooting. 
When,  alas!  my  father  trounced  me. 
Still  my  shiflless,  flighty  spirit 
Urged  me  all  day  long  to  shirk  work, 

115  Urged  me  off,  a  sorry  Nimrod. 

Scrawny  mud-hens,  big  fish-stories, 
Could  not  soothe  my  parent's  anger. 
Brought  my  blistered  palms  no  respite. 
To  cut  out  my  unknown  rival, 

t30  To  bring  'round  her  huffish  father. 

And  secure  his  full  approval 
Of  a  courtship  with  his  daughter, 
I  learnt  fiddling,  grew  side  whiskers. 
Wore  an  actot's  gaudy  necktie, 

las  Wore  big  slouch  hats  for  head-pieces. 

And  assumed  a  cowboy's  hauteur. 

When  I  next  beard  of  my  Janet 
News  came  she  had  caught  the  measles. 
Forced,  unwilling,  by  her  father 

130  To  go  dunning  where  it  rampaged. 

As  a  school-bell  which  all  fun  spoils, 
As  a  wasp's  sting  on  a  dog's  nose, 
So  these  tidings  fell  upon  me. 
What  to  me  were  fiddling  parties, 

t3S  What  to  me  were  stolen  apples. 

What  were  sombreros  and  "siders," 


'33 


M 


134 


How  I  Loved  and  Lost  my  Janet. 


If  my  Janet  had  the  measles  ? 
This  last  sorrow  overtook  me 

III  the  days  of  damp  November, 
140  When  the  chilling  rains  of  autumn 

Made  lagoons  along  the  way -side  ; 

When  the  birds,  with  empty  paunches, 

Tripped  about  in  search  of  fish-worms, 

Eager  to  begin  their  journey 
14s  To  the  pickings  of  the  Southland. 

On  that  fatal  day  the  storm-gods 

Seemed  to  rise  with  aching  stomachs; 

All  the  skies  looked  blue  and  sulky. 

All  the  air  was  full  of  Jack-frost, 
150  All  fat  turkeys  were  uneasy. 

All  things  showed  Thanksgiving  coming. 
All  my  passions  glowed  within  me 

Like  a  smouldering  firecracker; 

And  unable  to  control  them, 
155  I  rushed  forth  to  try  the  weather. 

And  the  damp  and  soggy  meadows, 

And  the  dripping  trees  of  woodlands, 

And  the  marrow-chilling  north-wind, 

Seemed  disposed  to  bring  on  tooth-aches, 
160  Seemed  the  weather  to  give  hoarse  colds. 

I  could  hear  the  village  youngsters 

Yelling  in  the  neighb'ring  valleys, 

Where  they  bnilded  dams  and  bridges ; 

While  their  dogs  barked,  and  their  coughs  barked, 
165  As  they  builded,  shouted,  waded. 

I  had  but  one  thought  to  guide  me, 

That  I  must  reach  some  retired  place. 

Reach  a  likely  haunt  of  squirrels,— 

For  the  winter  nights  were  coming,— 
170  There  to  bag  a  few  more  beech-uuts. 

With  this  prudent  thought  to  guide  me, 

I  betook  me  towards  the  streamlet 

Which  we  two  had  crossed  together 

Noontime  on  a  rail-and-board  raft. 


irked, 


How  I  Loved  and  Lost  my  Janet. 

175  And  the  scrub  trees  by  the  streamlet, 

Climbed  by  urchins  in  the  summer. 
Climbed  by  scart  cats  at  all  seasons. 
Seemed  to  beckon,  seemed  to  call  me, 
Cried  in  tones  untuned,  yet  jeering, 

180      '     Tones  lugubrious,  yet  noisy. 

As  a  small  boy's  ten-cent  trumpet : 
'"Twas  a  vain  chase  to  pay  house  rent." 

Then  the  hail  began  to  patter, 
And  I  wandered  towards  the  youngsters, 

185  And  I  shied  a  stone  among  them 

— And  I  hied  me  headlong  homeward ! 


135 


i-" 


136 


Sing  Me  the  Old  Songs. 


SING  ME  THE  OLD  SONGS. 

All  the  day  long  have  I  listened  your  singing, 
Dear  little  niece,  whose  least  note  is  an  anthem. 
Listened,  methought,  to  the  singing  of  angels ; 
For  such  sweet  harmony  rings  in  the  cadence 
Of  your  grand  voice,  that  in  compass  is  godlike. 
That  we  are  carried  away  in  the  spirit 
To  that  fair  land  that  is  promised  the  blessdd. 

Trained  as  your  voice  is,  'tis  Nature  is  singing. 
Nature,  not  art,  which  can  charm  where  art  faileth. 
As  is  full  proved  when  you  sing  homely  topics. 
Yet  there's  a  rapture  in  hearing  glad  music 
As  it  rolls  free  in  the  Tuscan  of  Dante, 
Or  when  you  ding  in  the  softest  Castilian, 
Changing  anon  to  a  sad  song  of  Heine's. 


Oh,  may  your  gift  be  a  blessing  from  Heaven, 
Cheering  mankind  in  their  joumeyings  thither ! 
Sing  not  for  fame,  not  for  gain,  but  as  duty 
Prompts  your  kind  nature  to  comfort  the  wretched ; 
Be  it  your  mission  to  sing  for  the  masses; 
And,  since  your  songs  are  a  promise  of  Heaven, 
Chaut  the  grand  psalms  of  inspired  old  hymnists. 


Sing  Me  the  Old  Songs. 

Many  a  time  in  the  days  that  are  buried, 
Though  still  by  me  they  are  sadly  lived  over, 
There  was  another  who  sang  me  sweet  home-songs 
III  a  loved  voice,  that  is  silent  forever. 
Dear  little  niece,  you  know  well  my  sad  story ; 
Somewhat  sing  now  as  they  sang  in  your  childhood. 
Sing  me  the  old  songs,  as  she  used  to  sing  them. 

For  my  own  part,  English  accents  are  dearest, 
And  the  old  melodies,  hallowed  by  mem'ry ; 
Old  recollections  are  stirring  this  evening, 
And  the  old  heart-break,  that  nothing  can  conquer. 
Asks  for  the  songs  that  were  sung  by  that  other. 
Sing  my  loved  songs,  though  it  pain  me  to  hear  them ; 
Sing  me  the  old  songs,  as  she  used  to  sing  them. 


137 


ng. 


ng, 
Ah, 


", 


ed; 


s. 


•  '^'B 


>38 


To  My  Old  Dog.  Nero. 


'Mi. 


TO  MY  OLD  DOG,  NERO. 

Not  dog  and  master  we,  but  friends, 

(Nor  were  ever  sweethearts  more  fond) 

And  naught  our  fellowship  oflFends, 
Nor  can  jealousy  break  the  bond. 

My  dog  and  I  are  lovers  twain. 

Without  the  lover's  madd'uing  paiu. 

His  joyous  bark  delights  my  heart 
As  we  wander  adown  the  stream; 

My  dog  and  I  are  ne'er  apart. 

And  our  life  is  a  long  day-dream. 

We  little  reck  how  this  world  wags, 

Nor  ever  find  one  hour  that  drags. 

And  when  sometimes  with  gun  we  rove, 
Nor  bold  eagles  that  live  in  air, 

Nor  beast  nor  bird  found  in  the  grove, 

Than  ourselves  are  more  free  from  care ; 

Though  well  we  know,  my  dog  and  I, 

That  this  old  world  oft  gets  awry. 


The  grand  old  sun,  in  his  day's  race. 
May  be  hidden  by  sullen  clouds, 

And  never  show  his  honest  face 

To  the  hurried  and  restless  crowds. 

Such  haps  fret  not  my  dog  and  me, 

We  view  the  world  so  scornfully. 


O 


To  My  Old  Dog.  Nero. 

The  crackling  fire  within  burns  bright, 
And  my  heart  is  quite  free  from  care ; 

Though  fondest  hopes  were  put  to  flight 
By  a  sweetheart  as  false  as  fair, 

I  know  my  good  old  dog  is  true. 

And  Nero  knows  I  love  him,  too. 


I  have  no  mind  to  be  content 
With  a  pipe  or  a  demijohn ; 

Nor  have  I  reason  to  lament 

The  old  love,  who  has  come  at» '  >    . 

Yet  in  my  dog  I  have  a  friend, 

Whose  steadfast  love  but  death  can  end. 


le  — 


The  wind  may  roar,  the  black  rain  fall, 
And  the  night  may  be  dull  and  sad, 

Nor  friend  nor  foe  may  chance  to  call. 
To  complain,  or  to  make  us  glad ; 

But  what  care  we,  my  dog  and  I, 

How  this  old  world  may  laugh  or  sigh ! 


Wit 


'¥- 


HO 


The  Little  Lone  House. 


THE  LITTLE  LONE   HOUSE. 


A  TRUK  STORY. 


AWAY  out  in  the  country,  far  from  any  other  habitation, 
a  little  brown  house  stood  on  a  hill  by  the  way-side. 
Its  occupants  were  a  widow  and  her  two  little  children,  a  dog 
and  a  cat,  also  members  of  the  family.  A  small  garden  sur- 
rounded the  house,  yielding  a  scanty  supply  of  vegetables. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  eked  out  a  living  by  teaching  a  small  school. 
It  was  hard  work  to  teach  this  school  and  take  care  of  her 
children,  while  the  remuneration  was  pitiful ;  but  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle had  a  brave  heart,  and  bore  her  privations  patiently, 
hoping  for  brighter  days. 

This  little  lone  house  seemed  to  be  strangely  attractive  to 
beggars  and  vagrants,  and  they  haunted  it  by  night  and 
day.  It  was  annoying  to  Mrs.  Carlyle,  and  sometimes  terri- 
fying to  the  children,  especially  when,  as  often  happened,  a 
drunken  man  would  stagger  up  to  the  house,  pound  on  the 
doors,  and  even  try  the  windows. 

They  had  a  dog,  to  be  sure;  a  big,  loafing,  yelping 
creature,  which  had  been  a  plaything  for  the  children  so  long 
that  its  usefulness  as  a  dog  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  When 
an  objectionable  caller  came  to  the  house,  this  dog  would 
make  a  tremendous  uproar,  and  scare  the  intruder  away,  if 


Ill 


The  Little  Lone  House. 


141 


abitatioii, 
way-side, 
reu,  a  dog 
arden  sur- 
itables. 
all  school, 
are  of  her 
Mrs.  Car- 
patiently, 

tractive  to 
night  and 
imes  terri- 
ippened,  a 
md  on  the 

g,  yelping 
-en  so  long 
5t.  When 
dog  would 
er  away,  if 


he  were  a  stranger  and  unacquainted  with  the  dog's  peculiar 
habits.  But  once  let  the  doughty  dog  out  doors,  instead  of 
flying  at  the  intruder  neck  and  heels,  he  would  either  profess 
the  greatest  friendship  for  him,  or  else  chase  hurry-scurry 
after  a  stray  cat  or  a  bird.  Carlo  delighted  in  running  pro- 
miscuoasly  after  flying  things. 

Again  and  again  poor  Mrs.  Carlyle  resolved  that  she  would 
never  pass  another  twenty-four  hours  in  the  house ;  but  the 
place  was  her  own,  and  she  could  support  herself  there. 
Further,  it  was  her  children's  birthplace. 

So  they  lived  on  in  the  little  brown  house ;  often  harassed 
by  beggars,  tramps,  and  drunken  men  ;  often  having  a  hard 
struggle  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door.  It  was  a  hard  life, 
and  a  wearisome  one. 

One  day  in  winter  the  daughter  of  a  neighbor,  having  been 
at  school  all  day,  was  going  to  stay  over-night  with  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle and  her  two  little  girls.  'The  children  were  amusing 
themselves  greatly  while  Mrs.  Carlyle  busied  herself  prepar- 
ing supper,  when  suddenly  a  tall  and  gaunt  figure  opened  the 
door  of  the  kitchen  and  deliberately  walked  in.  This  alone 
was  sufiicient  to  alarm  Mrs.  Carlyle  and  the  three  frolicking 
girls  ;  but —  the  man  was  an  Indian  ! 

There  was  really  no  cause  for  alarm,  as  a  peaceably -dis- 
posed Indian  was  less  to  be  feared  than  a  strolling  white  man. 
But  Mrs.  Carlyle  did  not  consider  this,  and  she  was  more 
frightened  than  she  cared  to  admit.  As  for  the  two  little 
girls  and  their  visitor,  they  had  read  that  'ery  day  in  their 
reader  about  the  barbarities  practiced  by  the  Indians  in  the 
early  days  of  the  country,  and  they  sickened  with  horror, 
feeling  certain  that  they  should  be  massacred  in  cold  blood. 

First  the  dog  was  appealed  to.  The  three  motioned  silently 
but  beseechingly  for  it  to  attack  the  Indian.  Carlo,  noble 
dog,  understood  ;  he  obeyed  their  entreaties  without  hesita- 


iii 


The  Little  Lone  House. 


tion  ;  and  squatting  before  the  Indian,  he  stretched  out  his 
paw  to  shake  hands,  opened  his  mouth,  and  panted  con- 
tentedly. 

"Poor  dog,"  said  the  Indian.  "Good  dog,  missis,  this 
un." 

"The  Indian  has  charmed  him,"  whispered  the  little  vis- 
itor shrilly.     "  Indians  always  do  charm  people's  dogs." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  he  won't  poison  him  !"  gasped  little  Edith 
Carlyle. 

The  three  posted  themselves  in  a  position  from  which  they 
could  watch  proceedings,  but  from  which  they  could  beat  a 
retreat  at  a  moment's  warning. 

"  Boss  in,  missis?"  asked  the  Indian. 

"  No,  he  is  not,"  said  Mrs.  Carlyle. 

"  I  don't  care,"  whispered  Gertrude,  the  elder  of  the  two 
sisters,  "  I  don't  care,  I  do  so  wish  it  would  have  been  right 
for  mamma  to  say  we  are  expecting  our  uncle  from  Califor- 
nia. 

"Can't  you  give  me  a  bit  of  food?"  asked  the  Indian. 
"I'm  hungry.     Victuals  smell  good." 

Mrs.  Carlyle,  not  so  much  frightened  as  confused,  took  up 
a  generous  slice  of  meat  and  hurriedly  gave  it  to  the  Indian. 
He  did  not  ask  for  a  plate,  but  said  politely,  "  Needs  knife  to 
cut  it  with,  missis.     My  own  all  "baccy." 

Mrs.  Carlyle  was  so  confused  that  she  gave  him  the  first 
knife  that  caught  her  eye.  To  her  own  and  the  little  girls' 
consternation,  it  proved  to  be  what  is  familiarly  known  as  a 
butcher's  knife !  The  poor  Indian  gave  a  grunt  of  disap- 
proval, but  did  not  ask  for  a  better  one. 

It  was  high  time  for  the  little  girls  to  retreat.  There  was 
a  patter  of  little  feet  over  the  floor— they  had  fled.  The 
sanctuary  they  sought  has  probably  been  sought  by  every 
little  girl  (and  boy,  too)  that  the  sun  ever  shone  on.    They 


The  Little  Lone  House. 


143 


ed  out  his 
mted  con- 

nissis,  this 

e  little  vis- 
dogs." 
ittle  Edith 

vhich  they 
>uld  beat  a 


of  the  two 
been  right 
>m  Califor- 

he  Indian. 

id,  took  up 
the  Indian. 
!ds  knife  to 

tn  the  first 
little  girls' 
known  as  a 
it  of  disap- 

There  was 
fled.  The 
it  by  every 
on.    They 


hid  in  their  bedroom  !  Here  they  felt  quite  safe,  for  the  time 
being;  but  Uzzie,  i heir  visitor,  quavered,  "I'll  never  come 
to  visit  you  again,  Gertie." 

"Oh,  don't  be  afraid,  Lizzie;"  said  Gertrude,  her  voice 
trembling ;  "  we'll  get  him  to  let  you  go,  as  you're  a  guest." 

"Oh,  he'll  kill  us  all  with  that  big  knife!  I  know  he 
will ! "  sobbed  Edith.  "  Listen ! "  hearing  a  rasping  sound 
from  the  kitchen.  "Oh,  Gertie!  He  is  sharpening  the 
knife  to  kill  us !    Oh,  dear ! " 

There  was  a  .^tcrambling  noise — Edith  had  disappeared.  A 
moment  later  and  Gertrude  and  Lizzie  had  also  disappeared. 
They  had  not  fallen  through  a  trap-door,  nor  been  spirited 
away  ;  they  had  only  gone  where  they  believed  they  would 
be  safest ;  they  had  crawled  under  the  bed. 

Finding  herself  deserted  by  the  three  frightened  children, 
Mrs.Carlyle  felt  her  native  courage  return,  and  although  still 
so  excited  that  she  made  little  progress,  she  went  on  with  her 
preparations  for  supper.  She  recollected  that  the  knife  she 
had  given  the  hungry  Indian  was  the  dullest  one  in  the  house ; 
and  perhaps  this  comforted  her. 

The  door  of  the  little  girls'  room  opened  quickly,  and  a 
figure  appeared  in  the  doorway.  Three  stifled  screams  and 
three  gasps  of  terror  came  from  the  trio,  betraying  their  hid- 
ing-place, and  they  huddled  more  closely  together. 

"  Gertrude,"  said  Mrs.  Carlyle's  voice  calmly,  "  come  out ; 
I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Three  little  golden  heads  peered  warily  and  fearfully  out 
from  under  the  bed.  Seeing  no  one  but  Mrs.  Cariyle,  and 
that  she  did  not  appear  so  very  much  frightened,  three  little 
figures  emerged  from  their  ambush. 

"  Gertrude,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Cariyle  in  a  hushed  voice,  "  I 
want  you  to  put  on  your  thicker  shoes  and  your  wraps,  and 


^11 


I 


144 


The  Little  Lone  House. 


run  up  to  Mr.  Colfax'H  for  some  of  them  to  come  and  take 
the  Indian  away." 

"Oh,  it'.s  so  cold,  and  the  snow  is  so  deep,"  sighed  Ger- 
trude. 

"  Yes,  dear  ;  but  there  is  no  other  way  to  get  rid  of  him." 

'  All  right,  mamma  ;  I'll  .start,  anyway." 

Mrs.  Carlyle's  presence  began  to  inspire  them  with  cour- 
age. 

"  What's  he  doing  now?"  Edith  whispered. 

"He  is  still  eating  his  meat,  Edith.  You  mustn't  be 
frightened,  girls." 

"Can  I  go  with  Gertie,  Mrs.  Carlyle?"  asked  the  little 
visitor. 

"Oh,  do  come,  Lizzie  !    You'll  be  such  company." 

But  when  they  had  put  on  their  wraps  and  started  out, 
they  found  the  snow  so  deep  and  soft  that  Gertie's  poor  little 
shoes  sank  through  it,  chilling  and  wetting  her  feet.- 

"  Oh,  dear  ! "  she  said.  "  My  feet  are  going  to  get  soak- 
ing wet ;  and  then  I'll  catch  cold ;  and  then  mamma  will 
have  to  make  me  onion  syrup." 

"  I  wish  you  had  nice  long-legged  shoes  like  mine,  Gertie ; 
they  are  just  like  boys'  boots.  Papa  got  them  lor  ine  on 
purpose  to  go  to  school  when  it's  wet  and  the  snow's  deep." 

"  I  wish  I  had,  too,"  assented  Gertie. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,  Gertie  !  Let  us  turn  back,  and 
I'll  takeoff  these  shoes  and  let  you  wear  them." 

"Oh,  7vi/l  you,  Lizzie  ?  How  good  you  are  !  I  shouldn't 
l)e  a  bit  afraid.     But  what  will  you  do,  Lizzie  ? ' ' 

"  I'll  stay  and  talk  with  Edith  till  you  come  back." 

"And  won't  you  be  frightened  ? " 

"  No,  I'll  try  not  to  be  ;  and  perhaps  if  the  Indian  should 
go  to  kill  your  mamma  and  Edith,  I  could  help.  Only  hurry, 
Gertie." 


The  Little  Lone  Home. 


145 


e  and  take 
ighed  Ger- 
dof  him.'* 
with  cour- 

mustn't  be 

d  the  little 

ny." 

tarted  out, 
s  poor  little 
!et.- 

0  get  soak- 
lanitna  will 

ine,  Gertie ; 

for  me  on 
>w's  deep." 

1  back,  and. 

I  shouldn't 

ick." 

lian  should. 
Only  hurry, 


Lizzie  meant,  if  the  Indian  .nhould  attempt  to  kill  them, 
she  might  help  to  resist  him.  She  was  a  bright  little  girl, 
but  she  could  not  always  say  exactly  what  she  meant. 

So  they  returned  to  the  house.  Gertie  drew  on  Liz/ie's 
top  boots,  and  then  bravely  went  out  into  the  cold  alone. 
The  snow  was  just  as  deep,  but  with  the  magic  boots  on  her 
feet  she  did  not  mind  it,  though  .she  sank  into  it  the  same  as 
before,  and  progress  was  slow.  But  the.se  shoes  kept  her  feet 
dry  and  warm,  and  she  trudged  on  bravely  and  hopefully. 

At  last  she  reached  Mr.  Colfax's  house.  Her  story  was  a 
startling  one  —  so  startling  that  it  frightened  the  little  Col- 
fax girls  so  much  that  they  declared  they  would  never  go  to 
school  again.  But  Mr.  Colfax  did  not  look  frightened,  though 
he  immediately  put  on  his  cap  and  overcoat. 

"Won't  you  please  take  your  gun,  Mr.  Colfax  ?  '  Ger 
trude ventured.     "I'm  sure  the  Indian  is  all  ready  ;  ■  figli» 
any  person." 

"  No,  Gertie  ;  he  wouldn't  be  afraid  of  a  gun." 

Gertrude  stayed  a  few  minutes  to  rest,  and  then  set  out  for 
home,  half  expecting  to  see  her  mother's  house  burst  out 
into  flames  before  she  reached  it.  But  no;  there  .stoo''  i':*. 
house  all  right. 

Mr.  Colfax  easily  prevailed  on  the  Indian  to  go  home  with 
him,  where  he  was  given  a  good  supper  and  a  night's  lodg- 
ing, and  sent  on  his  way  rejoicing. 

Once  rid  of  their  unwelcome  visitor,  the  three  little  girls 
became  exceedingly  brave,  and  gravely  told  what  they  \  oi'ld 
have  done  to  circumvent  him  in  case  he  had  attempted  to 
kill  them.  But  Grertie  had  proved  herself  a  little  heroine, 
and  she  knew  it. 

Some  weeks  after  this  occurrence,  another  schoolmate  was 
spending  the  night  with  Gertrude  and  Edith.  This  time  it 
was  oi.e  of  those  same  little  Colfax  girls  iL  ^^  had  declared 


~  -'=  r-'=="^'^'"'^^'TH7rr 


•""^'^'•"•'f 


146 


The  Little  Lone  House. 


she  would  never  go  to  school  again.  Far  from  doing  this, 
however,  she  had  gone  to  school  regularly,  and  never  rested 
till  she  was  invited  to  "stay  all  night "  at  the  Carlyles'. 

"How  romantic  it  must  have  been  for  you,"  she  said, 
speaking  of  the  Indian's  visit.  "  It  was  just  like  a  story, 
wasn't  it,  Gertie?    So  romantic." 

Lfittle  PhcEbe  Colfax  was  a  most  "romantic"  young  miss, 
who,  instead  of  writing  compositions  about  sugar,  water,  lead, 
sleigh-rides,  strawberries,  etc.,  wrote  painfully  moral  fables 
about  sportive  little  dogs,  big  watch  dogs,  blind  Negroes, 
good  little  girls,  and  bad  little  boys. 

"Yes,  it  did  seem  romantic  after  it  was  all  over,  and  we'd 
had  our  supper,"  said  practical  Gertrude. 

"  Do  you  suppose  anybody  will  come  to-night  ? "  Phcebe 
queried. 

"Oh,  I  hope  not!"  devoutly  said  Gertie  and  Edith  in 
chorus. 

"So  do  I,"  assented  Phoebe,  "unless  it  should  be  some- 
thing romantic  —  that  is,  that  would  not  be  too  terrible,  and 
would  seem  romantic  afterwards." 

Romantic  Phcebe' s  wish  was  partially  gratified.  After 
supper,  while  the  three  girls  were  getting  up  their  lessons  for 
the  next  day,  Mrs.  Carlyle  heard  the  sound  of  a  drum  in  the 
distance. 

"Girls,"  she  said,  "  I  hear  a  drum  beating.  I  think  it 
must  be  someone  getting  up  his  enthusiasm  for  St,  Patrick's 
day  ;  don't  you  want  to  go  to  the  door  and  listen  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes!"  said  the  three,  laying  down  their  books  and 
running  eagerly  to  the  door.  Gertie  turned  the  key  very 
cautiously,  and  then,  with  her  hand  still  on  it,  listened  in- 
tently. Hearing  no  one  outside,  she  carefully  opened  the 
door  a  little  way,  and  tlien  shut  it  with  a  bang. 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Edith. 


I  doing  this, 
never  rested 
Jarlyles'. 
1,"  she  said, 
like  a  story, 

young  miss, 
:,  water,  lead, 
moral  fables 
ind  Negroes, 

'er,  and  we'd 

t?"     Phoebe 

nd  Edith  in 

iild  be  some- 
1  terrible,  and 

ified.  After 
eir  lessons  for 
I  drum  in  the 

.     I  think  it 
St,  Patrick's 
jn?" 

eir  books  and 
the  key  very 
:,  listened  in- 
y  opened  the 


The  Little  Lone  House. 


147 


"  What  is  it?  "  whispered  Phoebe. 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  answered  Gertrude;  "I  was  only 
careful." 

Then  she  opened  *he  door  again.  All  was  still,  except  for 
the  sound  of  the  far-away  drum.  Growing  bolder,  she  opened 
the  door  to  the  extent  of  about  two  inches,  and  with  her 
hand  firm  on  the  knob,  held  it  so. 

"  Isn't  it  nice  ?  "  said  Edith. 

"Yes  ;  but  then  it's  only  some  common  drum,  you  know, 
Edith,  so  it  can't  be  much ;  "  said  Miss  Phoebe,  who  did  not 
seem  to  have  a  very  exalted  opinion  of  the  music.  Of  course 
if  she  could  have  imagfined  it  was  a  gallant  drummer-boy 
drumming  to  his  regiment,  she  would  have  been  enchanted. 

"  I  don't  care  ;  I  like  it,"  declared  Edith. 

"Well,  if  Phoebe  doesn't  care  for  it,  we'll  come  in,"  said 
Gertrude.  "I  don't  like  to  have  the  door  unlocked,  any- 
way ;  and  it's  pretty  cold." 

As  she  finished  speaking  she  perceived  that  something 
was  pressing  gently  -against  the  door,  trying  to  shove  it 
open.  This  was  so  terrifying  that  she  screamed  aloud, 
though  she  did  not  quit  her  hold  on  the  door. 

"  What's  the  matter  ! "  cried  two  voices. 

"Some  one  is  trying  to  get  in  !  "  Gertrude  screamed. 

"  Oh,  hang  on  !  Shove  it  shut !  Quick  ! "  cried  Phoebe. 
Then,  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  "  Mrs.  Carlyle  !" 

"  Oh,  it  won't  shut !  "  panted  Gertie.  "  Help  me,  Phoebe ! 
My  strength  is  all  gone!  I  can't  shut  it! — Mamma  I 
Quick!" 

Poor  little  Phoebe  !  Poor  little  girl !  She  did  what  she 
knew  she  would  never  do ;  what  she  despised.  -  She  fol- 
lowed the  example  of  Lizzie  ;  she  ran  and  hid  with  Edith  in 
Gertrude's  bedroom ! 


W^^ 


M 

■4, 


148 


The  Little  Lone  House. 


Mrs.  Garlyle  came  into  the  room  in  alarm.  "What  is  the 
matter  ? ' '  she  demanded. 

"Oh,  mamma  !  Some  one  is  trying  to  get  in,  and  I  can't 
shut  the  door  any  farther  ! " 

"  Stop,  Gertrude  !    It's  Stripy,  our  cat ! " 

Yes,  it  was  Stripy.  Finding  a  crack  of  the  door  open, 
he  had  pushed  gently  with  his  head  to  shove  his  way  in. 
Having  got  his  head  inside,. he  could  neither  draw  it  out, 
nor  force  his  body  through,  nor  squall ;  for  the  door,  with 
Gertrude  pushing  on  it,  held  his  neck  as  in  a  vice. 

Poor  Stripy !  With  horrified  eyes  protruding  from  his 
head,  he  turned  tail,  when  released,  and  sped  away  like  a 
mad  thing.  It  was  a  full  week  before  he  came  back,  and 
then  h6  seemed  unfriendly. 

Miss  Phoebe  was  very  quiet  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
It  is  doubtful  whether  she  could  ever  look  on  that  incident 
in  a  romantic  light.  But  Gertrude  had  again  behaved  like 
a  heroine. 

A  few  days  after  this  most  trying  experience  with  pussy, 

Mr.     Colfax  presented  Gertrude  with  a  lively  and  efifective 

little  gun,  and  taught  her  how  to  shoot  it.     At  the  same 

time  another  kind-hearted  neighbor  gave  them  a  powerful 

•and  intelligent  mastiff — a  really  valuable  dog. 

This  new  dog,  Nestor,  did  not  seem  to  have  much  respect 
for  Carlo,  and  they  did  not  agree  very  well ;  but  they  ate 
every  day  enough  to  sustain  them  for  three  days.  Although 
they  persisted  in  this  reckless  indulgence  of  appetite,  strange 
to  say  it  did  not  hurt  them.  But  two  dogs  were  a  nuisance ; 
and  if  the  new-comer  had  not  been  endowed  with  much  dig- 
nity and  self-esteem  he  might  have  picked  up  some  of  Carlo's 
foolish  habits. 

How  was  Mrs.  Carlyle  to  get  rid  of  poor  Carlo  ?  One  day 
a  deliverer  appeared  in  the  person  of  a  lazy,  good-natured 


Vhat  is  the 
md  I  can't 


door  open, 
lis  way  in. 
Iraw  it  out, 
door,  with 

I  from  his 
vay  like  a 
t  back,  and 

le  evening, 
at  incident 
shaved  like 

with  pussy, 
nd  effective 
t  the  same 
a  powerful 

uch  respect 
lUt  they  ate 
Although 
tite,  strange 
a  nuisance ; 
1  much  dig- 
e  of  Carlo's 


The  Little  Lone  House. 


149 


boy  (the  here  ».*  ^hoebe  Colfax's  stories  about  bad  boys), 
who  inveigled  C't.uo  oflf  into  the  woods  on  a  squirrel-hunt- 
ing excursion.  Carlo  enjoyed  himself  hilariously  that  day  ; 
but,  for  all  that,  he  made  a  "  mysterious  disappearance." 
His  fate  is  still  unknown  to  the  little  Carlyles.  Miss  Phoebe 
insists  that  he  must  have  met  his  death  while  "defending 
himself"  bravely  against  some  ferocious  outlaw ;  but  the 
boys  look  wise,  and  say  darkly  that  he  didn't  go  farther 
south  than  Patagonia,  the  ultima  thule  of  their  geographies. 


?    One  day 
3od-natured 


■mi»iiif.r.i«M)l1|- 


I50 


The  Scholars'  Secret. 


1 


THE  SCHOLARS'  SECRET. 

Thb  short  December  afteruooii 

Was  waning,  when  the  teacher  cried, 
"Now,  Sarah!    Whisp'riug,  when  so  soon 

School  closes,  and  you've  not  applied 
One  hour  this  day  to  honest  work ! 

And  Allie,  too !  Why  will  you  mock 
At  my  commands,  and  idly  shirk 

Your  duties  for  incessant  talk  ? " 

The  scholars  knew  a  strange  unrest 

That  day,  for  very  soon  again 
Low-whispered  counsels  passed,  with  zest, 

From  Sarah,  till  a  look  of  pain 
In  teacher's  face  most  plainly  showed. 

The  murmurs  ceased ;  who  could  forget 
That  teacher  her  great  influence  owed 

To  kindliness  —  not  whip  or  threat. 

Each  Friday  afternoon  was  spent 

In  teaching  girls  fine  fancy-work ; 
While  boys,  disdaining  this,  were  bent 

On  solving  problems  hard  that  lurk 
In  fractions  or  the  rule  of  three. 

The  scholars  liked  the  plan,  and  then 
Each  one  to  speak  a  piece  was  free 

On  gallant  deeds  by  famous  men. 

This  day  the  maids  were  all  intent 

On  making  each  some  Christmas  gift ; 

While  teacher  kindly,  as  she  went 

From  seat  to  seat,  with  stitches  swift 

Gave  beauty  to  the  simplest  thing. 

These  gifts  would  all  be  cherished  long 


JtiiiliWiMIMi^ 


:t 


In  scholars'  homes,  as  they  wouI<l  bring 
Pledge  of  a  child's  affection  strong- 


>g 


To-night  the  teacher,  after  hours, 

(No  work  was  taken  home  till  done) 
Worked  patiently,  with  flagging  powers. 

Till  half  the  weary  night  was  run. 
On  something  that  a  dainty  touch 

Must  finish.    Why  her  best-loved  girls 
Had  whispered  so,  she  wondered  much! 

What  mischief  lodged  beneath  their  curls ! 

The  Pond  Lodge  school  a  custom  had 

Of  planning  every  Christmas-tide 
A  Christmas-tree,  'round  which  the  glad 

School-children  clustered,  side  by  side. 
Here  would  the  teacher  place  for  each 

A  prize  —  were  it  deserved,  or  not ; 
And  ask  some  one,  who  far  could  reach 

With  wand,  to  call  to  each  his  lot. 

This  season  Hugh  and  John  went  forth 

Into  the  wood  with  dog  and  sled. 
And  felled  a  cedar  that  the  north 

Wind  buffeted.    As  back  they  sped. 
The  harnessed  dog  scarce  felt  their  weight. 

Then  Hugh  and  John  fast  braced  the  tree. 
Which  surely"  had  a  worthy  fate  — 

The  next  day's  Christmas  revelry. 

Next  day  was  cold,  but  very  fair, 

And  half  the  scholars  <:ame  in  sleighs ; 
A  merry  crowd,  so  free  from  care. 

That  spoke  of  teacher  with  fond  praise. 
The  gifts  are  told  off,  till  at  last 

The  wand  strikes  something — and  a  shout 
Of  "Teacher!"  all  around  is  passed. 

She  knows  all  now  —  the  secret's  out! 

The  parcel  opened,  there  is  found 
A  quaint  old  Bible,  richly  bound. 


152 


^  O^ice  Lot  of  Pets. 


A  NICE  LOT  OF  PETS. 

I  HAD  once  a  btK  dog,  tlia*  was  famous 
For  his  bark  and  the  murderous  way 

That  he  greeted  the  callers  and  suitors 
Of  my  sisters — who  crossly  one  day 

Turned  him  loose,  with  a  "MAD"  ticket  streaming 

From  his  neck — and  the  whole  street  was  screaming. 
When  I  came  he  bad  just  chased  the  mayor 
Up  the  street,  and  was  biting  the  marshal. 

Next  I  got  me  a  goat  >tiat  was  clever, 

In  his  frisky     id  underhand  way ; 
But  he  butted  my  uncle  one  morning, 

In  the  boist'rous  excitement  of  play, 
Off  the  porch,  where  be  helplessly  wallowed 
In  March  slush.    Ere  his  anger  was  swallowed 

The  goat  chewed  up  his  will  —  and  my  uncle 

Disinherited  all  of  our  family. 

Then  I  tamed  a  white  owl,  till  it  hooted 

At  the  moon,  or  stray  cats,  or  rude  boys ; 
But  it  scared  one  dear  girl  till  she  fainted  — 

When  I  prompt  put  an  end  to  its  noise. 
While  my  dog  killed  but  rabbit  and  kitten. 
This  had  owl  was  the  means  of  the  mitten 

Being  given  to  me  by  the  sweetheart 

I,  a  boy  of  sixteen,  loved  so  dearly. 

With  a  fox  I  consoled  myself  later 

(Though  some  said  'twas  a  polecat  I  had); 

In  a  wild  spree  he  burnt  up  the  court-house  — 
And  my  town    oik  got  thoroughly  mad. 

Need  I  say  that  I  now  am  in  prison. 

With  a  chance  there  to  stay  till  I  wizen ; 

For  all  crimes  that  the  lawyers  ere  heard  of 
Have  been  traced  to  nie  through  my  pets'  frolics. 


ffliininiiiiiwiiliwii 


Illg 

ntiig- 


olics. 


The  H^asbingion  Climate. 


153 


THE  WASHINGTON  CLIMATE. 

IF  the  attempt  had  been  made  in  the  city  of  Washington 
to  establish  our  present  system  of  seasons,  and  the  allot- 
ment of  365)^  days  to  the  year,  the  work  would  have  proved 
a  superhuman  one,  and  would  have  resulted  in  the  complete 
demoralization  of  every  mathematician  and  astronomer  under- 
taking it.  Instead  of  the  orderly  system  now  prevailing,  it 
would  have  been  left  a  disputed  question  whether  winter 
should  begin  on  Thanksgiving  Day  or  after  Christmas; 
whether  winter,  once  inaugurated,  should  cover  a  period  of 
one  hundred  and  twenty-seven-  days  and  nights,  or  discount 
eleven  and  a  half  days  to  the  credit  of  spring.  There 
would  have  arisen  a  far-reaching  schism  as  to  whether  dog- 
days  begin  on  the  8th  of  June,  or  on  the  41st  of  July ;  and  the 
more  ardent  supporters  of  one  faction  would  have  written 
abstruse  text-books  to  prove  by  the  hypothetical  history  of 
all  exhumed  mastodons  that  dog-days  begin  on  the  first- 
mentioned  date,  while  the  equally  enthusiastic  supporters  of 
the  other  faction  would  have  proved  by  the  fashions  regulat- 
ing bathing  costumes  that  it  is  high  treason  to  maintain  that 
dog-days  ever  did  or  ever  could  begin  on  any  other  date  than 
the  41st  of  July,  at  2  o'clock  p.  M.  The  faction  of  the  "  great 
unwashed"  would  have  split  off  from  these  latter,  holding 
that,  in  the  fitness  of  things,  dog-days  come  in  with  the  ad- 
vent of  the  dog-catcher,  feeze  off  and  on  indefinitely,  co-ex- 
istent with  his  career,  and  finally  leave  us  abruptly,  just  ten 
days  after  the  sea-serpent  appears  off  Newport  and  the  first 


• 


'C^ 


154 


The  IVasbington  Climate. 


tramp-loaded  freight  train  starts  for  Texas.  The  heated  dis- 
putes occasioned  by  all  this  iiticertainty  would  have  led  to  the 
rise  and  fall  of  empires,  the  dynamiting  of  Caesars,  the  con- 
version and  extermination  of  the  cow-boy  of  Arizona,  the  pre- 
mature discovery  of  revolvers,  of  Ignatius  Donnelly's  Key,  of 
messenger-boys,  of  divorce  lawyers,  of  bogus  testimonials, 
and  of  mind-reading. 

Then  again,  the  greatest  discrepancy  would  have  prevailed 
among  scientists  and  coal-dealers  in  trying  to  strike  an  aver- 
age temperature  for  January  and  March  ;  and  the  British 
tourist  would  have  debated  30  long  the  important  question 
whether  a  shilling  thermometer  would  be  likely  to  stand  the 
wear  and  tear  of  a  Washington  winter,  or  whether  it  would 
be  advisable  for  him  to  arm  himself  with  an  instrument  war- 
ranted to  wrestle  with  April  days  in  January  and  all-congeal- 
ing cold  in  April,  that  finally  he  would  have  taken  ship  for 
South  Africa,  to  share  the  fate  of  the  tender  antelope  and  the 
juicy  missionary. 

If  a  Rip  Van  Winkle  should  awaken  in  our  midst  he 
could  only  approximately  fix  the  season  and  the  month.  But 
there  are  in  Washington  four  special  and  immortal  days  on 
which  Rip  Van  could  always  and  infallibly  fix  not  only  the 
month,  but  the  exact  day  of  the  month.  The  first  in  order 
is  the  20th  of  February,  on  which  date  the  grimy  gamin  cele- 
brates the  initial  game  of  marbles  of  the  season.  (The 
peaceable,  respectable,  and  less  warm-blooded  public-school 
boy  plays  his  first  game  from  four  to  seven  days  later,  and  so 
is  less  to  be  depended  on  in  fixing  a  date.)  The  second  date 
is  that  of  the  3d  of  April,  on  which  auspicious  day  the  first 
patriotic  District  of  Columbia  tramp  and  the  first  impetuous 
humming-bird  revisit  the  place  of  their  birth.  Both  are  a 
trifle  previous  in  their  calculations  ;  both  suffer  considerably 
from  cold  feet ;  but  they  are  too  proud  to  acknowledge  their 


*4«. 


sated  dia- 
led to  the 
,  the  con- 
i,  the  pre- 
s  Key,  of 
:itnonials, 

prevailed 
;  an  aver- 
e  British 

question 
stand  the 

it  would 
nent  war- 
l-congeal- 
a  ship  for 
oe  and  the 

midst  he 
ath.  But 
il  days  on 
t  only  the 
t  in  order 
amin  cele- 
n.  (The 
)lic-school 
Ler,  and  so 
!Cond  date 
ly  the  first 
impetuous 
Both  are  a 
asiderably 
edge  their 


The  Washington  Climate. 


»55 


mistake  by  any  retrograde  movement.  Our  next  epochal 
date  is  the  29th  of  May,  when  the  small  boy — irrespective  of 
the  condition  of  the  weather,  the  impurity  of  the  Eastern 
Branch,  his  susceptibility  to  the  quinsy,  or  the  social  position 
of  his  forefathers  —  takes  his  first  "  swim  "  in  the  river.  On 
appointed  holidays  the  small  boy  may  or  he  may  not  point 
the  vivacious  fire-cracker  at  the  hired  man  ;  he  may  or  he 
may  not  gorge  himself  with  stuffed  turkey  on  Thanksgiving 
Day,  and  so  cease  to  be  tormented  with  Dr.  Bugbear's  pills 
and  other  worthy  remedies  that  he  has  so  often  dutifully 
choked  down  —  but  he  will  go  in  swimming  on  the  29th  of 
May,  or  the  heavens  will  fall.  And  now  we  come  to  the  red- 
letter  day  of  the  calendar  :  the  glorious  loth  of  June,  in  the 
afternoon  of  which  day  the  summer  excursion  poster  makes 
its  annual  appearance  on  the  board  fences  and  dead  walls  of 
all  inhabitable  places  in  the  District. 

On  anyone  of  these  dates  an  almanac  need  not  be  referred  to 
in  Washington  by  any  one  who  has  eyes  to  see  and  ears  to 
hear ;  at  any  other  time  an  almanac  is  as  vital  a  necessity  as 
a  chart  at  sea.  The  promiscuous  distribution  of  gaudy  pat- 
ent medicine  almanacs  is  all  that  has  saved  the  country  and 
the  climate  from  the  established  fate  of  the  chestnut-bell  and 
the  prospective  fate  of  the  traveling  hypnotist. 


h 
H 


\ 


! 

! 
■a   ' 


156 


H^hen  It  h  fMiiv. 


WHEN  IT  IS  MAY. 

WHEN  May  comes,  the  small  boy  first  begins  to  think 
seriously  of  trading  oflF  his  marbles  for  fish-hooks, 
and  from  fish-hooks  his  thoughts  revert  tu  long-tailed  kites. 
Before  May  is  half  over  he  yearns  to  build  a  dam  and  launch 
a  raft. 

The  small  boy  is  not  content  to  go  fishing  where  it  is  dry 
and  wholesome,  but  seeks  out  the  dampest  marsh  he  can 
find.  Every  night  he  comes  home  a  good  deal  too  late  for 
his  supper,  with  his  trousers  tucked  in  his  long-legged  hoots, 
to  hide  the  alluvial  deposits  streaked  on  them  ;  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  to  hide  the  mud-stains  and  the  lacerations  of 
his  patent  fish-hooks ;  and  his  hat,  his  new  straw  hat  — 
what  of  that  ?  Alas  !  the  evil-smelling  marsh  water  has 
played  sad  havoc  with  the  small  boy's  new  hat,  and  he  has 
followed  the  dictates  of  prudence  and  left  it  in  the  woodshed. 
He  sits  down  to  the  supper  table  with  a  light  heart,  and 
clears  it  of  everything  save  the  dishes  and  the  mustard.  He 
had  caught  an  amazing  number  of  fish,  of  course;  so  many, 
in  fact,  that  he  couldn't  count  them  all — couldn't  begin  to 
do  it.  But  some  of  them  were  too  small  to  bring  home  ; 
some  of  them  he  lost;  some  of  them  got  away;  and  some  of 
them  were  bull-frogs,  every  time. ,  Anyway, —  and  he  lays 
marked  and  exultant  emphasis  on  this  —  anyway  he  had  a 
"  splendid  time." 

Those  who  stroll  about  the  city  find  the  drug-store  win- 
dows full  of  patent  cough  medicines,  and  spring  anti-febriles. 


U'hen  It  Is  {May. 


'57 


jius  to  think 
r  fish-hooks, 
-tailed  kites. 
1  and  launch 

here  it  is  dry 
larsh  he  can 
too  late  for 
legged  l)oots, 
his  hands  in 
acerations  of 
straw  hat  — 
b  water  has 
:,  and  he  has 
le  woodshed. 
>t  heart,  and 
lustard.  He 
se;  so  many, 
in't  begin  to 
bring  home  ; 
and  some  of 
and  he  lays 
ay  he  had  a 

ug-store  win- 
anti-febriles, 


and  awful  satires  on  the  man  who  died  a  wretched  death 
because  he  would  not  invest  a  paltry  dollar  in  a  bottle  of 
spring  medicine.  Remembering  how  they  have  expo.«ed 
them.selves  to  the  May  sunshine,  they  hurry  into  the  drug- 
store and  glance  at  this  medicine  and  at  that,  feeling,  all  the 
time,  that  they  will  share  the  suicidal  miser's  fate  if  they  do 
not  do.se  with  spring  medicine  at  once ;  and  they  invest  a 
paltry  dollar  —  perhaps  three  or  four  paltry  dollars  —  in  Eau 
de  Cologne  and  other  perfumes,  and  saunter  out  into  the 
street  with  a  light  heart. 

There  is  a  beauty  in  the  fields,  and  the  woods,  and  the 
apple-orchards,  that  tempts  human  nature  to  while  away  the 
time  out  in  the  meadows  and  the  woodlands,  to  study  botany, 
and  to  envy  tinkers  and  tramps.  The  sun  may  be  like  a 
fiery  furnace,  but  under  the  trees  it  is  cool  and  delightful. 
The  woc/Js  are  always  cool;  but  in  the  pent-up  city  the  stone 
pavement  is  so  intensely  hot  that  it  frizzles,  and  scorches, 
and  burns  everything  that  pa.sses  over  it — except  the  naked 
foot  of  the  friendless  hoodlum. 

"  In  the  spring  the  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to 
thoughts  of  love,"  and  in  May  he  decorates  himself  with  a 
new  watch-chain  atiu  a  new  cane,  and  finds  out  where  cream 
caramels  retail  at  the  most  reasonable  price.  And  on  Sunday 
afternoons  the  highways  and  the  by-ways  are  full  of  top  bug- 
gies, and  the  top  buggies  have  all  a  pair  of  lovers,  and  the 
parlors  of  the  farmhouses  are  suggestive  of  protracted  Sunday 
evening  courtships.  And  the  country  maiden,  as  well  as  the 
city  maiden,  discards  last  year's  fashions,  and  parasols,  and 
earrings,  and  appears  in  raiment  and  oflF-settings  of  the  most 
enchanting  and  dazzling  newness ;  and  the  Niagara  hack- 
man,  reflecting  on  all  these  things,  chuckles  a  sordid  chuckle ; 
for  he  knows  that  twenty-four  hours  after  the  marriage  of 
these  lovers  they  will  be  at  the  Falls,  and  at  his  mercy. 


158 


The  Engineer's  Sai^] 


THE  ENGINEER'vS  vSONO. 

Mv  old  engine  long  I've  cherished, 
And  with  her  have  well-nigh  perished ; 
I  can  hardly  be  entreated 
To  exchange,  and  not  be  greeted 
By  the  music  of  her  liell, 
For  I'm  sure  she  knows  me  well, 
And  has  always  been  well  treated. 

Though  our  life  knows  much  of  care, 

What  is  there  that  can  compare 
With  the  feeling,  oft  so  thrilling, 
That  the  engine,  strong  and  willing, 

Is  as  much  at  our  command 

As  the  fingers  of  the  haud, 
In  our  lightest  wish  fulfilling? 


With  my  fireman  by  my  side 
And  the  throttle  opened  wide, 

O'er  vast  prairies  we  go  bowling, 

Or  adown  broad  rivers  rolling ; 

Climbing,  now  and  then,  a  grade 
That  might  make  us  feel  dismayed, 

Had  ray  mate  not  prompt  been  coaling. 

But  it  needs'  a  steady  nerve 

As  we  swing  round  some  sharp  curve. 
Winding,  by  scarce  felt  gyration, 
To  the  highest  elevation 

That  is  known  along  the  line  — 

Whence  time-tables,  rain  or  shine, 
Leave  scant  time  for  inspiration. 


The  Engineer's  Song, 

Sense  of  daiit^er  acRrce  we  feel 
On  thi»  iiioiiiiter,  built  of  itcel, 
TIioukIi  we're  far  from  dniiKer  scorning, 
A«  our  train,  with  icarce  a  warnint;, 
May  Ko  crasliiuK  down  the  liill— 
While  the  Company  foots  the  hill, 
SumnioninK  ut  all  next  inorniiiK. 

Thanks  to  our  unceasing  care, 
Grievous  accidents  are  rare; 
liut  in  slaughter  most  appalling. 
When  the  mangled  loud  are  calling 
To  the  dead,  there  comes  no  cry 
From  the  driver,  first  to  die, 
Buried  in  the  wreck  down-falling. 

Though  it  may  be  well  coiifest 
That  we  love  the  spring-time  best, 
Our  good  engine  is  a  sprinter, 
Whether  it  be  June  or  "winter ; 

And  as  long  as  tracks  arc  clear 
Of  rough  weather  she's  no  fear, 
Crashing  on  as  through  a  splinter 


'59 


On  the  rails.    The  midnight  flash 

Of  her  headlight  can  abash 
B'eti  the  blinding  glare  of  lightning ; 
The  loud  thunder's  echo  height'ning, 

Comes  our  crash  of  coupling-links. 

While  our  dragon-throated  sphinx 
Opes  her  throat  with  blast  more  fright'ning. 

Save  the  foggy  nights  each  year, 

Nothing  dauuts  the  engineer ; 
Though  each  run  is  filled  with  pleasure 
Noue  but  engineers  can  measure, 

Most  they  love  the  homeward  way, 

On  a  track  as  light  as  day. 
Where  there  waits  the  household  treasure. 


i6o  The  Etigineer's  Song. 

Past  incoming  trains  that  wait, 
Past  the  flagraen  by  their  gate ; 
Then  the  station  lights  espying 
Just  as  the  long  day  is  dying; 

Past  long  freight  trains,  pulling  out, 
Past  the  groups  of  boys  that  shout. 
When  the  "Limited"  comes  flying. 

Oh,  there's  nothing  could  cajole 
Us  away  from  the  control 
Of  the  fiery-hearted  giant, 
liiat  to  you  seems  so  defiant, 

But  to  us,  who  know^  our  forte, 
'Tis  a  puppet  for  our  sport, 
And  to  us  perhaps  as  pliant. 


'^^f^l^r 


The  Railwayman's  Trials. 


i6i 


THE  RAILWAYMAN'S  TRIALS. 

ABOUT  the  20th  of  March  there  appeared  before  a  railway 
ticket-agent  at  Green  Bay,  Wisconsin,  a  determined- 
looking  woman  from  the  wilds  of  upper  Brown  County. 
She  was  accompanied  by  a  red-eyed  boy,  just  recovering  from 
chicken-pox,  who  evidently  was  her  son  and  heir.  He  took 
after  his  mother,  in  that  he  was  rustic,  fidgety,  warlike,  and 
wholly  uncultured  in  all  his  ways. 

"Is  this  where  they  tell  you  about  the  railroads?"  the 
woman  asked. 

"Yes,  madam,"  said  the  ticket-agent  promptly. 

"  Do  the  cars  run  from  here  to  Milwaukee  ?  " 

"Yes,  madam,  direct." 

' '  Do  they  run  every  day  ?  " 

"Certainly;  three  through  trains  each  way  every  day."^ 

"And  do  they  stop  long  enough  for  a  body  to  get  on  and 
off?" 

"Certainly  they  do;  and  you  will  be  assisted  on  and  off." 

"  Well,  where  do  I  get  on  ?  I  don't  see  no  tracks  anywhere  ; 
you  don't  keep  them  covered  up,  I  suppose,  do  you  ?  " 

"  You  board  the  train  at  the  station,  madam." 

' '  Well,  we  want  to  go  to  Milwaukee.  This  here's  Johnnie^ 
and  his  paw's  coming  in  to  talk  with  you  bimeby  ;  so  it 
won't  be  no  use  to  try  to  cheat  me!  His  paw  driiv  us  into 
town,  and  he  told  me  to  go  to  the  railroads  first,  and  then 
he'd  tackle  'em.  He's  traveled  conriderable,  ind  he  ain't 
easy  took  in." 


1 62 


The  Railwayman's  Trials. 


"It  isn't  my  place  to  take  people  in ;  it  doesn't  pay,"  said 
the  ticket-agent  sagely. 

"  His  paw  reckoned  a  ticket  shouldn't  cost  more  'n  three 
dollars,  and  that  the  boy  ought  to  be  took  along  free,  seeing 
he's  been  'most  dead  with  chicken-pox,  and  is  going  away 
for  his  health." 

"  Oh  !  Well,  we'll  see.     When  do  you  think  of  going  ?  " 

' '  We  calculate  to  go  to-morrow,  and  stop  over-night  here 
to  his  sister's.  It's  my  cousin's  we're  going  to  stop  at  to 
Milwaukee.  Am  I  likely  to  lose  anything  if  I  go  and  buy 
my  railroad  ticket  to-day,  instead  of  to-morrow  ?  " 

' '  Certainly  not ;  it  will  save  you  the  trouble  of  attending 
to  it  to-morrow.  The  morning  train  will  be  the  best  one  for 
you  to  take,  and  then  you  will  get  there  in  good  time  for 
your  dinner." 

"Well,  that's  lucky,  ain't  it!  But  s'pose  I  buy  it  now, 
and  the  railroad  should  bust  up  before  I  want  to  use  it — 
who's  going  to  be  liable  for  that  there  ticket  ?  That's  what 
/want  to  know.  I  don't  mean  to  go  too  fur  trusting  any 
railroad." 

"I  —  I  don' t  —  exactly  —  understand, ' '  said  the  agent. 

' '  Don' t,  eh  ?  Well,  I  guess  I'm  a  grain  too  cunning  to  go 
and  buy  my  ticket  to-day,  and  perhaps  wake  up  to-morrow 
and  find  your  railroad  is  dead  broke,  or  sold  out  —  'specially 
when  you  stammer  so  about  it.  We'll  look  around  some, 
and  maybe  get  a  ticket  here  to-morrow." 

The  ticket-handler  smiled  sweetly,  as  was  his  \7ont. 

"  Am  I  sure  to  get  into  the  right  cars? "  she  asked  pres- 
ently. "I  don't  want  to  get  took  off  to  Chicago,  or  New 
York,  or  any  of  them  awful  places." 

"  I'll  go  down  to  the  train  myself,  and  see  you  off." 

"Off  where ?    You  needn't  hatch  no  plot  to  abduct  me  ! 


The  Railwayman's  Trials. 


163 


t  pay,"  said 

ore  'n  three 
;  free,  seeing 
going  away 

>f  going?" 
r-night  here 
to  stop  at  to 
go  and  buy 

of  attending 
:  best  one  for 
ood  time  for 

buy  it  now, 

t  to  use  it — 

That's  what 

trusting  any 

the  agent, 
unning  to  go 
p  to-morrow 
—  'specially 
iround  some, 

7ont. 
e  asked  pres- 
ago,  or  New 

>uofiF." 
abduct  me ! 


I'll  have  his  paw  there,  and  he  will  see  that  you  don't  play 
no  tricks  on  a  woman  traveling  alone  with  her  sick  boy." 

The  ticket-agent  explained,  as  well  as  she  would  let  him, 
that  he  would  see  her  safe  on  the  right  train. 

' '  Dees  cars  ever  get  struck  with  lightning  ?  ' '  she  suddenly 
asked. 

"  No,  not  that  I  ever  heard  of,  madam." 

"Are  they  liable  to  run  oflF  the  track  at  this  time  of 
year?" 

"Not  at  all." 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  railroads  and  such ;  but  my 
cousin  told  me  to  take  your  railroad.  You  don't  own  it, 
though,  I  s'pose?" 

"No,  I  do  not." 

"Are  the  bridges  pretty  good?  Is  there  any  extry  safe 
cars  you  can  put  us  in  ?  Is  any  English  lord  likely  to  be 
going  our  way  this  week,  so'st  I  can  travel  in  his  car,  and  be 
safe  ?  I  reckon  you  don't  dare  pitch  them  fellows  into  the 
ditch." 

"  The  train  that  leaves  to-morrow  morning  by  our  line  will 
be  extra  safe,  for  a  Jubilee  company  will  be  aboard,  and  they 
never  get  killed  —  or  hurt." 

"  Is  i/iai  so  ?  Well,  if  they  do  smash  up,  anyhow,  I  want 
to  know  how  I  can  work  it  to  sue  the  railroad." 

"  Take  out  an  accident  ticket,  if  you  are  afraid." 

"  What's  "hat  ? " 

When  this  was  explained  to  her,  she  said,  feelingly:  "I 
shan't  take  out  no  accident  ticket,  for  if  I  was  killed  his 
paw'd  get  the  money,  and  the  hired  girl  would  get  him. 
He  told  me  I  'd  better  get  one  if  I  was  afraid,  and  I  see 
now  what  he  drove  at." 

Here  the  sick  boy  who  was  not  sick  nudged  his  mother, 
and  whispered  something  to  her.  Turning  to  the  ticket-agent 


164 


7he  Railwayman's  Trials. 


she  said,  "  I  hain't  no  goods  to  speak  of,  but  I  calculate  to 
have  when  we  come  back.  This  boy  here's  got  a  handsled, 
that  he's  going  to  take  down  to  his  cousin  to  Milwaukee. 
You  see,  the  handsleighing  '11  soon  be  done,  and  he  reckons 
if  he  makes  a  present  of  his  old  sled  to  his  cousin  that  he'll 
get  something  handsome  in  return.  Sal  always  was  that 
way;  she'd  make  her  boy  give  away  everything." 

"All  right,"  said  the  ticket-jobber  wearily.  "They'll 
fix  that  for  him  at  tLe  baggage  office." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  worry  about  that;  his  paw  says  he'll 
work  it  through  for  him.  What  I  wanted  to  say  was,"  as 
the  boy  nudged  her  again,  ' '  that  Johnnie  liere  wants  to 
know  if  he  can't  hitch  it  fast  behind  the  cars.  He  reckons 
there'll  be  some  snow  yit,  and  he  thinks  it  would  be  fun  to 
set  and  watch  that  sled  slidin'  along  behind." 

Again  the  boy  whispered  some  more,  and  his  mother  said 
further:  "  He  wants  to  know  if  he  mightn't  climb  out,  oc- 
casional like,  and  ride  a  ways  on  that  sled,  when  there  seems 
to  be  plenty  of  snow.  He's  used  tc  hitching  on  behind.  Be- 
sides, the  railroad  couldn't  conscientiously  charge  the  poor 
boy  when  he  traveled  that  way." 

Ticket-agents  do  not  express  astonishment.  This  one, 
however,  said  :  ' '  Unless  the  boy  is  as  tough  as  a  wrought 
iron  door-knob,  you  wouid  be  sorry  anybody  ever  built  a 
railroad.     And  as  for  the  sled — ." 

"  Well,  the  doctor's  always  saying  he's  got  an  ircm  consti- 
tution, anyway;  and  we  wouldn't  look  to  you  to  find  no 
cord  to  hitch  his  sled  fast,  for  Johnnie's  pockets  is  always 
stuffed  with  cord." 

' '  Do  you  really  want  to  make  our  train  ridiculous  by  tying 
an  old  home-made  handsled  to  the  rear  coach  ?  The  very 
suggestion  of  such  a  thing  is  preposterous.  And  besides, 
your  sled  would  be  wrecked  or  lost  in  a  twinkling  " 


n 


calculate  to 
a  handsled, 
Milwaukee. 
i  he  reckons 
in  that  he'll 
i^s  was  that 

"They'll 

iv  says  he'll 
ly  was,"  as 
re  wants  to 
He  reckons 
Id  be  fun  to 

mother  said 
imb  out,  oc- 
there  seems 
aehind.  Be- 
ge  the  poor 

This  one, 
s  a  wrought 
ever  built  a 

iron  consti- 
to  find  no 

ts  is  always 

nus  by  tying 
?  The  verv 
\nd  besides, 


The  Railwayman's  Trials.  i6t 

This  outburst  seemed  to  impress  the  woman  from  Brown 
County,  and  saying  she  would  be  likely  to  come  in  again, 
she  went  out,  followed  by  the  boy  who  was  used  to  hitching 
on  behind. 

In  about  an  hour's  time  they  came  back,  surely  enough, 
and  accompanied  by  ' '  his  paw. ' ' 

"Well,"  she  panted,  "I've  found  out  something  sence  I 
was  here  before.  But  first  I  want  to  tell  you  what  this  boy 
wants  to  know.  We  seen  the  cars  down  to  the  station,  and 
the  enjine  ;  and  he  wants  to  know  how  soon  he  could  learn  to 
run  them.  He  wants  to  know  if  he  couldn't  ride  with  the 
enjine-driver,  and  find  out  how  they  do  run  them  cars. 
Couldn't  he  work  his  way  down  to  Milwaukee  that  way 
like  ?  Or  could  he  learn  how  to  do  the  hull  business  com- 
plete?" 

' '  He  could  not  be  allowed  to  bother  the  engineer,  madam. ' ' 

"That's  what  his  paw  jus'"  now  told  him;  but  I  said  I 
reckoned  I  had  a  way  I  could  work  it  so'st  he  could." 

"  You  are  mistaken  ;  I  have  no  authority  over  any  engi- 
neer.    When  do  you  think  of  going  down  to  Milwaukee?  " 

"  Don't  be  so  sure  of  that ;  nor  don't  be  in  such  a  hurry 
to  sell  me  a  ticket.  I've  found  out  that  there's  another  rail- 
road that'll  take  us  from  Green  Bay  to  Milwaukee,  just  as 
his  paw  always  said  ;  and  I  guess  it's  our  place  to  be  inde- 
pendent now,  and  yours  to  be  pretty  meek.  I 'told  you  jus' 
now  we  had  a  way  to  work  it  so'st  you'd  have  to  favor  us  a 
little." 

The  ticket-ageut  at  last  showed  faint  traces  of  anger.  It 
was  not  often  that  he  was  so  badgered  -  even  by  the  stupidest 
of  i^upid  old  women. 

i'he  old  lady  remorselessly  continued,  "  The  other  fellow 
said  this  boy  here  is  as  smart's  a  'coon,  and  that  he'd  make 


mf 


•mi^ 


1 66 


The  Railwayman's  Trials. 


an  enjineer  before  the  President  gets  his  cabinet  broke  in  ; 
hnt  ^011  never  even  spoke  to  him  ! " 

"  I  ?  Well,  I  believe,  madam,  you  didn'  t  give  me  a  chance. 
How  do  you  do,  my  little  man  ?  You  certainly  pulled  through 
the  small-pox  better  than  the  Gov — ." 

"  Who  said  anything  about  small-pox  ?  "  snarled  the  old 
lady.  "  My  boy  had  chicken-pox.  We  ain't  easy  flattered, 
neither." 

"So  you  want  to  run  an  engine,  do  you,  Johnnie ?  Well, 
when  you  get  to  Milwaukee  I  hope  you  may,"  sardonically. 
"  Here's  a  map  of  our  road.  You  can  see  how  straight  it 
runs  to  Milwaukee.     Well,  that's  the  way — ." 

"  The  other  fellow  showed  us  liis  map,  too,"  said  the  old 
lady,  "and  it  appeared  to  run  'most  as  straight  as  yourn, 
and  was  a  sight  bigger.  It  was  'most  rice  enough  for  Jinny 
to  hang  up  in  her  room.  But  they  do  both  look  powerful 
straight." 

"  That's  ^he  way  with  them  dum  maps,"  said  "  his  paw," 
speaking  for  tlia  first  time.     ' '  They  all  run  terrible  straight ; 
but  when  you  get  aboard  the  cars  you  go  'most  as  crooked  as 
a  boy  with  a  game  leg  a-chasin'  up  a  Thanksgivin'  rooster." 
"  Well,  I  want  to  ask  you  something  partic'ler,"  said  the 
old  lady.     "  S'pose  this  boy  here  gets  to  clamberin'  around 
on  the  top  of  them  cars,  what  am  I  to  do  about  it?  " 
"  Is  he  so  fond  of  climbing  as  that?  " 
"  Land,  yes  !     He's  an  awful  boy  to  climb.     T'other  day 
he  dumb  up  a  ladder  twenty-four  foot  high." 
' '  And  doesn'  t  he  ever  fall  ?  " 

"  He  fell  all  the  way  down  plumb  that  time,  and  tore  his 
coat  fearful.  That's  just  what  I  want  to  find  out.  S'pose 
he  climbs  them  cars,  and  falls  off,  and  gets  killed  ;  -ain't  that 
there  company  liable  ?  I  warn  you  that  /  can't  hold  that 
boy," 


let  broke  in  ; 

me  a  chance. 
lUed  through 

arled  the  old 
!asy  flattered, 

nnie?  Well, 
sardonically. 
)w  straight  it 

'  said  the  old 
jht  as  yourn, 
ugh  for  Jinny 
ook  powerful 

i  "his  paw," 
ible  straight ; 
as  crooked  as 
ivin*  rooster." 
ler,"  said  the 
,berin'  around 
tit?" 

T'other  day 


The  Railwayman's  Trials. 


167 


"  How  much  is  the  boy  worth  ?  " 

"Well,  his  paw  and  me  reckoned  he  ought  to  be  worth 
about  ten  thousand  dollars,  considerin*  how  much  it  costs  to 
raise  him,  and  how  terrible  sorry  we'd  be  to  lose  him." 

"Well,  then,  madam,  the  company  can  claim  twice  that 
amount  from  you,  if  the  boy  kills  himself  in  that  way ; 
while  j'OH  can't  recover  a  ragged  dollar  from  them.  So  I 
would  advise  you  not  to  let  him  monkey  about  the  train, 
unless  you  share  my  sentiments,  and  would  like  to  see  him 
martyred." 

"Great  Scott !  "  ejaculated  the  boy's  "  paw." 
"You  great  wretch  !  "  screamed  the  boy's  "  maw." 
Burning  with  righteous  indignation,  the  party  hustled  out 
into  the  street. 

The  next  morning  the  ticket-vender  had  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  mother  and  son  leave  Green  Bay  for  Milwaukee  — 
but  not  by  his  line. 

"So  the  other  road  gobbled  them,  after  all;"  he  mut- 
tered.    "  But  we  are  well  rid  of  them  ;  well  rid  of  them." 


'''*^ 


i 


-^^ 


E^<^ 


i,  and  tore  his 
1  out.  S'pose 
ed  ;  -ain't  that 
m't  hold  that 


""sr 


1 68 


t/Jn  Experienced  Traveler 


) 


THE  OLD  LADY  POSING  AS  AN  , 

EXPERIENCED  TRAVELER. 

ALONG  in  April,  the  old  lady  who  had  journeyed  from 
Green  Bay  to  Milwaukee,  on  a  visit  to  her  cousin, 
went  to  a  ticket  agency  to  negotiate  for  a  ticket  for  herself 
and  her  son  Johnnie  to  Green  Bay.  She  now  considered 
herself  an  experienced  traveler,  who  knew  all  the  wiles  of 
ticket-agents,  and  who  was  not  going  to  take  advice  from 
any  person.  She  and  Johnnie  had  visited  the  St.  Paul  and 
the  Northwestern  depots  frequently,  and  they  now  knew  all 
about  "the  cars." 

"  Well,  young  man,"  she  said  patronizingly  to  a  spectacled 
young  ticket-clerk,  who  happened  to  be  in  charge,  "I'm  out 
prospecting  for  a  ticket  to  the  city  of  Green  Bay.  Let  me 
know  the  best  you  can  do  for  us,  and  if  it  doesn't  chime  in 
with  my  expectations,  we'll  just  step  around  to  some  rival 
in  your  line." 

The  young  man  quoted  the  rates  for  first  and  second-class 
tickets. 

"It  kinder  appears  to  me,"  said  the  old  lady,  "that 
considerin'  it's  spring  now,  you  might  do  better  'n  that. 
Me  and  Johnnie  here  is  always  favored  when  we  travel,  and 
treated  well." 

"So  you  will  be  on  our  line,"  said  the  young  man. 
"There  are  porters  to  assist  you  on  and  ofif  all  trains,  and  to 
take  all  charge  of  your  baggage." 

"Well,  that's  lucky.     But  be  they  honest  men  ?    Won't 


«yf«  Experienced  Traveler. 


169 


>  AN 
R. 

rneyed  from 
her  cousin, 
t  for  herself 
w  considered 
the  wiles  of 
advice  from 
St.  Paul  and 
low  knew  all 

3  a  spectacled 
;e,  "I'm  out 
ay.  Let  me 
sn't  chime  in 
:o  some  rival 

second-class 

ady,  "that 
;tter  'n  that, 
re  travel,  and 

young  man. 
trains,  and  to 

len  ?    Won't 


they  run  away  with  any  of  tny  goods  ?     I've  got  consider- 
able stuff  with  me." 

"They  wouldn't  dare.  This  is  a  civilized  community, 
anyway. ' ' 

"Well,  I've  traveled  before.  I  ain't  no  greenhorn;  you 
can't  play  no  humbugging  tricks  on  me." 

"  What  have  you  in  the  shape  of  baggage,  madam  ?  " 

"Well,  if  it's  your  place  to  know,  I  have  %oi  considerable. 
There's  a  big  umbrella  for  his  paw ;  and  there's  a  leather 
bag,  with  some  of  mine  and  Johnnie's  clothes  in  it ;  and 
there's  a  box  Johnnie's  got,  with  one  of  them  things  you 
call  an  organette  packed  into  it ;  and  there's  a  toy  locomo- 
tive his  cousin  bought  for  him ;  and  there's  a  greyhound 
pup  I  reckon  we'll  carry  in  his  cousin's  fish-basket ;  and 
there's  my  shawl,  if  it  turns  cold  on  the  way  ;  and  there's  a 
pair  of  long-legged  boots  I  got  for  Johnnie  here  to  Milwau- 
kee to  a  bankrupt  sale,  to  slo.4h  around  in  this  spring,  so'st 
he  won't  get  the  quinsy." 

"  I  would  like  to  suggest  to  you  the  propriety  of  packing 
your  stuff  in  a  trunk,  and  not  attempting  to  handle  it  all 
yourself,"  ventured  the  ticket-clerk. 

"  Mercy  on  us  !  Do  you  take  me  for  a  lunatic  ?  Young 
man,  I  ain't  so  simple.  Pack  them  things  in  a  trunk,  and 
have  it  bumped  around,  and  not  know  where  it  was,  and 
mebby  lose  it ;  and  have  it  dumped  out  to  Green.  Bay,  and 
busted  open  on  the  platform  !  His  paw's  often  telling  about 
the  time  him  and  his  other  wife  moved  on  the  railroad,  and 
packed  five  hundred  pounds  of  household  goods  in  an  old 
sideboard  he  bought  at  a  sale, — 'most  all  the  things  they 
had  in  the  world, — and  the  men  shoved  the  old  thing  off 
onto  the  ground,  to  change  it  onto  a  steamboat,  and  it  busted 
open,  and  the  contents  were  landed  around  there  like  as  if  a 
freight  car  had  exploded  ;  and  they  hadn't  no  more  place  to 


170 


e/f«  Experieticeii  Traveler. 


stow  them  in  than  a  kitchen  table,  and  an  eight-day  clock, 
and  a  cook-stove,  and  a  tool-chest,  and  a  powder-keg  ;  and 
his  paw  says  the  way  them  men  swore  was  worse  than  if  a 
pirate  had  sprained  hisankle.  No,  yoiing  man,  I  ain't  green  ; 
and  you  can  rely  on  it  that  I  don't  pad-  aiy  goods  in  trunks, 
for  them  railroads  to  bust." 

"I  was  only  thinking,  madam,  what  a  bother  all  your 
parcels  would  be  to  you,"  said  the  ticket-agent  m.eekly. 

"Well,  young  man,  it  ain't  necessary  for  you  to  worry 
about  other  people.     Be  you  a  married  man  ?  " 

"  Eh  !     Well  —  yes  —  I  am,  madam. ' ' 

"  Well,  sir,  it  ain't  none  of  my  business  if  you  go  home 
to-night,  and  forgit  to  take  your  wife  the  starch  she  may 
have  asked  you  to  git.  It  ain't  none  of  my  business  if  she 
jaws  you  about  it  all  night ;  and  I  ain't  going  to  worry 
about  it." 

"  It's  our  duty,  madam,  to  look  after  the  interests  of  travel- 
ers," ventured  the  ticket-agent. 

"It  might  better  be  your  duty  not  to  interfere  where  you 
ain't  wanted.  I  tell  you,  I  have  traveled  before,  and  I'm 
considerable  sharp.  You  can't  take  me  in,  no  more'n  you 
could  his  paw.  You  ought  to  take  us  cheaper  now,  because 
it's  spring  ;  and  you  hain't  got  no  snow  to  shovel  oflFyour 
railroad,  nor  no  water  to  thaw  out  for  your  b'ilers  ;  and  the 
men  that  runs  the  railroad  don't  need  to  wear  their  winter 
clothes,  nor  keep  the  cars  so  hot." 

"  I  should  like  to  inquire  in  what  country  you  have  trav- 
eled, and  what  manner  of  railroads  carried  you." 

"You  needn't  do  it,  then!"  screamed  the  woman  from 
Brown  County.  "I  have  traveled. — There's  my  cousin, 
now,"  she  said  suddenly ;  "she's  traveled  all  over  creation  ; 
and  she  wouldn't  think  much  more  of  going  from  here  to 


.^i£h 


-■'jwiytn*""" 


it-day  clock, 
er-keg  ;  and 
•rse  than  if  a 
:  ain't  green; 
ds  in  trunks, 

her  all  your 
meekly. 
on  to  worry 


you  go  home 
irch  she  may 
usiness  if  she 
)ing  to  worry 

rests  of  travel- 
re  where  you 
fore,  and  I'm 
|o  more'n  you 
now,  because 
lovel  off  your 
ilers ;  and  the 
,r  their  winter 

^ou  have  trav- 

woman  from 
my  cousin, 
)ver  creation ; 
from  here  to 


t/1n  Experienced  Travetei 


171 


Ohio,  where  she  come  from,  than  she  does  of  going  around 
in  them  street  cars." 

"So  your  cousin  has  traveled  a  good  deal,  has  she  ?  "  said 
the  ticket-agent,  wishing  to  conciliate  the  irate  old  woman. 
' '  Has  she  ever  been  to  London  ?  to  Europe  ? ' ' 

"  What !  You  don't  mean  the  London  where  them  British 
live,  do  you  ?  I  thought  you  meant  the  London  near  Madison, 
or  that  there  place  in  Canada.  I  should  think  you'd  be  ashamed 
of  yourself,  a  young  man  like  you,  to  talk  about  a  woman 
going  skiting  around  in  that  way  —  and  away  over  the  ocean 
to  Europe  !  And  her  ray  cousin,  too  !  You  needn't  try  to 
insult  me  about  my  relations,  if  you  please !  —  I  should 
think  them  railroad  fellows  would  h<  'aid  to  trust  you  here 
alone,  with  all  these  maps,  and  pic         ,  and  picture-books." 

"  I  meant  no  insult,  madam,"  said  the  young  man,  look- 
ing scared  and  bewildered.  ' '  In  what  places  has  your  cousin 
been,  if  I  may  ask  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  may  ask,  as  long  as  you  ask  civil  ques- 
tions. She's  been  to  Chicago,  and  to  my  place,  and  to 
Madison,  and  to  Niagara  Falls  !  and  to  St.  Louis  !  And  I 
think  she  CHANGED  CARS  IN  Chicago  on  her  way  there! 
Mebby  you'd  know  ;  mebby  not.  We  ain't  going  to  Green 
Bay  till  Thursday,  so  'st  the  hired  girl  and  Jinny  '11  have 
most  of  the  week's  work  done  ;  so  you  see  I  ain't  in  no  hurry 
to  git  my  ticket  yit.  Good  day,  young  man  ;  you  can  think 
it  over  about  them  fares." 

,  And  the  old  lady  went  out,  leaving  Johnnie  to  clo^  the 
door  behind  them  —  which  he  failed  to  do. 

She  had  had  a  little  further  experience  with  ticket-agents ; 
and  the  persecuted  clerk  —  who  had  a  yearning  to  learn  the 
ri^febad  business  —  had  had  a  little  further  experience  with 
traveling  humanity. 


172 


The  Folder  Fieiui. 


THE  FOLDER  FIEND. 

^  ^  I    ET  me  have  any  fol  tiers  of  the  railroads  here  to-day  ? ' ' 

L  queried  a  lank  youth  with  sore  eyes,  as  he  walked 
into  a  ticket-office  at  La  Salle,  Illinois. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  distribute  them  ?  "  asked  the  ticket-agent, 
handing  over  half  a  packet  of  folders  of  his  own  road. 

"  '  Distribute  them  ? '"  echoed  the  youth.  "Oh,  no  ;  I'm 
collecting  for  myself.  I  like  railroads,  and  I'm  crazy  about 
folders." 

"Then  you  won't  wr.iit  more  than  one,  I  suppose,"  said 
the  ticket-agent,  handius?  hiui  a  solittr;'  folder  and  shoving 
the  rest  back  into  the  stand. 

' '  No,  not  more  than  one  of  each  road, ' '  said  the  lank  you  Lb 
slowly,  looking  wistfully  at  the  gaudy  folders,  of  all  sizes  and 
colors. 

"  H<  re,  you  talk  to  him,  and  tell  him  what  he  doesn't 
knov  iilrefi-  y-  about  folders,"  said  the  ticket-agent,  with  a 
sly  'V      r,  t«      grinning  office-boy. 

"  v;»t  many  of 'em?  "  asked  the  boy,  coming  forward,  all 
l;e<i''-ared  with  red  ink  and  stamped  on  the  left  hand, 
"Secure  through  tickets  via  the  Great  Line." 

"  Many  ?  "  cried  the  youth  who  was  crazy  about  folders. 
"I've  got  more  of  'em  than  you  ever  saw  !  " 

"  Glad  to  hear  it,"  said  the  office-boy.  "  But  if  you  nevei: 
had  one  of  ours  before,  I'm  mighty  sorry  for  you." 

"  I  have.  Besides,  I  live  here,  and  that  makes  a  differ- 
ence." 


*^'ff?"f* 


hereto-day?" 
as  he  walked 

le  ticket-agent, 
vn  road. 
"Oh,  no;  I'm 
m  crazy  about 

suppose,"  said 
T  and  shoving 

the  lank  you  Lb 
of  all  sizes  and 

hat  he  doesn't 
t-agent,  with  a 


ng  forward,  all 
the  left  hand, 

about  folders. 

Jut  if  you  nevei: 

you." 

makes  a  differ- 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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Hiobgraphic 

Sciences 

Corporalion 


23  WIST  MAIN  STRUT 

WnSTiR,N.Y.  145M 

(716)  •72-4503 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


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r 


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r 


-■V 


■*• 


The  Folder  Fiend. 


173 


"Shouldn't  wonder.  D'  you  ever  hear  of  the  Goose-bone 
road  ?  or  the  Squint-eyed  road  ?  or  the  Sad  Farewell  road  ? ' ' 

"Do do .     You  don't  mean  the  '  Nickel' Plate,' 

or  the  '  Scenic  Route  ?  '  "  stammered  the  folder  fiend. 

"  No,  I  don't.  We  always  mean  what  we  say  here,  for 
if  we  didn't,  we'd  be  fined  eighty  per  cent,  on  pro  rates." 

The  youth  who  wanted  folders  looked  dazed.  He  began 
to  comprehend  that  there  might  be  some  things  about  rail- 
roads that  he  didn't  know;  some  things  that  the  folders  kept 
secret,  as  it  were. 

"  I  am  always  on  the  look-out  for  new  folders,"  he  said, 
"and  I  wish  you'd  give  me  those  you  mention.  I  always 
try  to  keep  a  weather  eye  on  the  railroads  and  the  folders, 
and  I'll  bet  you  there  isn't  one  I  don't  know,  if  you  call  it 
by  its  proper  name. ' ' 

"  Shouldn't  wonder,"  replied  the  office-boy.  "  But  if  you 
wouldn't  try  to  keep  your  eyes  on  the  weather  so  much, 
perhaps  they  wouldn't  look  so  red.  And  as  for  the  railroads 
and  the  folders,  I'll  bet  you  don't  know  three  out  of  thirty- 
.seven  by  nickname ;  and  if  you  don't  know  the  nickname 
you  oughtn't  to  go  nosing  around  for  folders." 

"  Name  one  properly  that  I  don't  know,"  cried  the  youth 
who  wanted  more  folders. 

"Sho!  what's  the  M.  C?  " 

"  Michigan  Central  !     You  see,  I've  got  you  this  time." 

"No,  you  hain't!"  roared  the  office-boy.  "There  are 
three  M.  C.'s." 

"Three?  You  —  you  must  mean  the  Dining  Car  Line, 
then,  or  the  Scenic  Route." 

"  No,  I  don't.  But,  see  here  —  which  is  the  Scenic  Route, 
or  the  Dining  Car  L,ine,  anyway  ?  Which  is  it,  or  where 
does  it  run,  when  there  are  nineteen  of  one  and  eighty  of 
the  other?" 


L 


174 


7he  Folder  Fiemi. 


"  Nineteen  !  Eighty  !  Why,  isn't  the  Denver  and  Re6-o 
Grand'-ay  the  scenic  line  of  America  ?  " 

"  Is  it  ?  I  thought  it  was  that,  and  the  Erie,  and  the  B. 
&  O.,  and  one  of  the  P.  roads,  and  the  Hollow  Bell,  and  the 
Orphan's  Luck,  and  the  Warrior  Note,  and  the  Shock-haired 
Crank,  and  the  Bandits'  Prey,  and  the  Lonely  Run,  and  the 
Goblin  Eye,  and  the  C.  P." 

"  Central  Pacific  !  "  caught  up  the  lank  youth  hopefully. 

"  Who  said  anything  about  the  Central  Pacific  ? "  sneered 
the  office-boy.  "  Don't  you  know  there  are  seven  C.  P.'s, 
and  three  more  building  ?  ' ' 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  "  cried  the  folder  fiend. 

"  I  don't,  eh  ?     I  thought  I  spoke  it  right  out." 

"  Give  me  some  folders  of  them,  then,"  with  an  eager  look 
in  his  watery  eyes. 

"  You  wouldn't  know  them  if  you  got  them.  Why  don't 
you  learn  railroading,  as  I  have  done,  and  then  you  wouldn't 
have   to  go  about  asking  questions  and  making  a  fool  of 

yourself. ' ' 

"There  must  be  an  awful  lot  to  learn,"  sighed  the  sore- 
eyed  youth,  looking  dejected  and  humble. 

"  Creation,  yes  !  But  you  appear  to  know  something, 
already." 

"  Well,  I  hope  I  do  —  and  I  really  think  I  do.  Trj'  me, 
now  ;  give  me  a  hard  question." 

"  I'll  give  you  an  easy  one  —  a  beginner's.  What's  the 
route  from  New  Glasgow,  Nova  Scotia,  to  Chihuahua,  Mex- 
■  ico,  via  Long  Island  Railway  ?  Also  distance,  connections, 
and  fare.     Not  in  money,  but  in  the  way  of  grub." 

"Xhe—  the—.  I—.  That's  not  an  easy  question!  I 
know  better ! " 

"So  do  I  know  better;  it's  the  easiest  one  in  the  book. 
Come,  now  ;  you  wouldn't  give  it  up,  would  you  ?  " 


r 


T  and  Re^-o 

and  the  B. 
Jell,  and  the 
ihock-haired 
Lun,  and  the 

li  hopefully. 
:  ? "  sneered 
:ven  C.  P.'s, 


t." 

m  eager  look 

Why  don't 
^ou  wouldn't 
ng  a  fool  of 

bed  the  sore- 

j  something, 

lo.     Trj'  me. 

What's  the 
uahua,  Mex- 

connections, 
lb." 
question  !     I 

in  the  book. 

3U?" 


The  Folder  Fiend. 


175 


"The  book?    What  book?" 

"  Worse  and  worse  !  '  What  book  ! ' — Why,  I  mean  the 
Railroad  Catechism  for  Freshmen,  put  out  by  the  Hanging 
Beam  Railway  Co." 

' '  Will  you  let  me  have  a  copy,  please  ? ' ' 

"  Let  you  have  one  ?  I'd  be  hot-pickled  by  the  company 
if  I  gave  one  away  !  Why,  they  pay  sixty  cents  apiece  for 
them,  and  they're  secretly  distributed  by  incognito  book- 
agents." 

"  I  never  knew  you  have  so  much  fuss  and  nonsense  about 
railroading,"  sighed  the  lank  youth,  looking  wearily  about 
him.  "But  say,  tell  me  what  you  mean  by  'hot-pickled.' 
Do  you  mean  bounced  ?" 

"  Bounced  ?  I  guess  not.  I  mean  ear-whiffled,  that's  all. 
But  that's  bad  enough,  you  know." 

"No,  I  don't !  You're  a  humbug,  you  are !  There  are 
no  such  cranky  railroads  as  you  talk  about." 

"There  ain't,  eh  ?     I  wish  you'd  prove  that  !  " 

"  Well,  tell  me  now,  do  tell  me,  the  inside  name  for  your 
own  road." 

"The  Rock  Island,  or  the  Rock  Island  Route." 

"Is  that  all?" 

' '  That  all !     Ain'  t  that  enough  ?  " 

"  Hasn't  it  any  nickname,  outside  of  your  own  selves?  " 

"Not  worth  a  cent." 

"Honest  Injun?" 

"Certain  sure." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  know  that,  anyhow.  I  suppose  I've 
got  that  solid.     Say,  what's  ear-whiffled  ?  " 

"Shut  up  in  a  box  car  with  the  rats,  where  they're  bunt- 
ing and  banging  into  you  all  day  long,  shunting.  'Sh  !  don't 
tell!"  .  ^ 

"  I  won't.     But  does  it  scare  you  any  ?  " 


,/ 


176 


The  Folder  Fietui. 


"Awful.     Gives  you    nightmare  and   makes  your  nose 
bleed." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  !  " 

"Then  I  wish  you'd  go  away  and  not  bother  me.     I've 
got  to  mail  some  matter  to  Denver." 

"Have  they  many  folders  in  Denver  ?  " 

"  I  expect  they  have." 

"  Denver,  Colo.  ?  " 

"That's  the  Denver  I  mean." 

"Many  railroads?" 

"U.  P.;  Burlington;  Rock  Island;  Rio  Grande;  Texas 
and  Gulf;  Santa  F6  ;  and  some  local  Colorado  roads." 

"  If  you  had  tried  to  fool  me  there,  you'd  have  been  sold, 
for  I  know  Denver  by  heart.  Got  an  uncle  there,  and  I  'm 
going,  too,  some  day." 

"  Glad  to  hear  it.  I  hope  we  ain't  detaining  you.—  But 
say,  who  talks  of  fooling  anybody  ?  You're  too  fresh,  or 
you'd  know  better." 

"Tell  me  the  nickname  of  the  I.  C.  road,"  pleaded  the 

folder  fiend. 

"  Which  I.  C.  ?     Don't  you  know  there  are  three  ?  " 
"What  three  ?  "  defiantly  answered  the  folder  fiend. 
"The  Illinois  Central,  the  Intercolonial  of  Canada,  and 
the  old  Isinglass  Co. '  s  road  in  North  Carolina. ' ' 

"  Is  there  such  a  road  ?     Give  me  a  folder  of  it,  then." 
"We're  out.     Go  so  fast  we  can't  keep  them." 
"  Well,  tell  me  what  you  call  the  Illinois  Central." 
' '  The  Dixie  Hammer,  or  the  Laughing  Stepchild. 
"Boy,"  here  interposed  the  ticket-agent,  "if  you  string 
ofiF  any  more  heroic  legends  I  shall  not  be  able  to  believe  you 
myself.— Here,  young  man,",to  the  folder  fiend,  "  take  this 
packet  of  folders  I've  carefully  made  up  for  you.    The  in- 
stant a  company  shall  build  an  all-rail  line  to  the  Sandwich 


your   nose 


me.     I've 


ide  ;  Texas 
jads." 
e  been  sold, 
re,  and  I  'ra 

you. —  But 
oo  fresh,  or 

pleaded  the 

iree?" 
:r  fiend, 
[panada,  and 

t,  then." 

tral." 

hild." 

f  you  string 

0  believe  you 

I,  "take  this 

)u.    The  in- 

he  Sandwich 


The  Folder  Fiend. 


177 


Islands,  we  will  remember  you,  and  send  you  a  folder. 
Meanwhile,  perhaps  you'd  better  not  call  around  again  til! 
next  leap-year,  for  you  have  picked  up  information  enough 
to  last  you  till  then." 

"If  we  find  we  can't  get  along  without  you,  we  will  cer- 
tainly send  for  you, ' '  cheerfully  said  the  office-boy. 

The  folder  fiend  snatched  up  the  packet  of  folders  and 
walked  away,  happy,  yet  feeling  grievously  discouraged. 
When  he  opened  the  packet  he  felt  still  more  discouraged  ; 
for  it  contained  time-tables  only,  with  never  a  map. 

' '  This  is  mean  ! "  he  exclaimed.  ' '  This  is  a  mean  joke  !  — 
Upon  my  word,  it's  All-Fool's-day  !  " 

But  genius  is  not  easily  dismayed.  That  night  he  wrote  a 
peculiarly  affectionate  letter  to  his  uncle  in  Denver,  asking  (ap- 
parently incidentally)  if  his  uncle,  the  next  time  he  went 
down  to  the  Union  Pacific,  Burlington,  or  Rio  Grande  ticket- 
offices,  would  kindly  procure  for  him  the  following-named 
folders:  The  Goose-bone,  the  Dixie  Hammer,  the  Goblin 
Eye,  the  Warrior  Note,  two  or  three  of  the  different  C.  P.'s, 
the  several  Scenic  Routes,  the  Intercolonial  of  Canada,  the 
Hanging  Beam,  and  the  Mexican  Central.  Any  others  that 
might  chance  in  his  (the  uncle's)  way  would  prove  equally 
acceptable.  "You  see,  uncle,"  he  wrote,  "I'm  determined 
to  learn  railroading,  for  I  want  to  become  a  practical  rail- 
roader. I  have  found  out  that  the  great  roads  have  even  a 
literature  of  their  own.  But  I  have  no  intention  of  losing 
heart,  even  though  I  should  be  ear-whifHed  when  I  do  get 
on  a  road." 

In  five  days  he  heard  from  his  uncle,  to  this  effect : 

''My  Dear  Henry  :  — Somebody  has  evidently  been  mak- 
ing a  fool  of  you.  I  do  not  accuse  you,  you  will  perceive,  of 
wishing  to  play  an  April-fool  joke  on  me.     As  for  railway 


178 


The  Folder  Fieiui. 


maps  (and  this  seems  to  be  the  burden  of  your  letter),  get 
the  names  of  roads  from  the  daily  stock  reports,  or,  better 
still,  from  the  Official  Guide.  Go  down  to  the  office  in  your 
own  town,  where  they  are  very  courteous,  and  politely  ask  for 
what  you  want.  They  have  an  unlimited  supply  of  folders  ; 
but  you  must  be  polite.  Of  course  if  you  dropped  in  to  buy 
a  through  ticket  to  Yokohama,  you  might  be  as  boorish  as  a 
Boston  tramp  on  his  travels,  and  they  would  forgive  you.  Go 
ahead  and  learn  railroading,  by  all  means,  but  don't  suffer 
yourself  to  be  guyed  by  anybody  ;  and  some  day  I  will  strike 
you  for  a  pass  to  South  America. 

"  Your  aflfectionate  uncle, 

"William  Shipyard." 

The  folder  fiend  now  felt  utterly  discouraged.  And  there 
was  one  thing  that  bothered  him  sorely  :  what  on  earth  was 
the  Official  Guide  ? 

How  could  he  again  ask  for  folders  at  the  ticket-office  ? 
"I  guess,"  he  muttered  sadly,  "I  guess  I'd  better  give  up 
railroading,  and  study  law.  It  will  be  just  a  little  easier,  and 
it  can't  be  such  a  humbugging  thing." 


H 


ft*-,,fe* 


letter),  get 
5,  or,  better 
ice  in  your 
tely  ask  for 
of  folders  ; 
d  in  to  buy 
)oorish  as  a 
e  you.  Go 
ion't  suffer 
[  will  strike 

ncle, 

[PYARD." 

And  there 
n  earth  was 

icket-office  ? 
ter  give  up 
e  easier,  and 


A  Severe  Test. 


'79 


A  SEVERE  TEST. 


a 


WKLL,  old  pard,  how  are  you,  and  how  are.  you  get- 
ting along  now-a-days  ? "  demanded  a  rough  old 
barbarian,  returned  to  his  native  district  after  an  absence  of 
many  years,  of  a  good-natured  granger,  who  was  trying  to 
lead  a  better  life.  "  Manage  to  live  any  better'n  you  used 
to  ?  Manage  to  live  without  pinching  and  starving  your- 
self?" 

"Eh?  Well,  I  guess  I  hain't  starved  to  death  yet,  nor 
sponged  my  board  off 'n  the  neighbors.—  But,  I  say,  you're 
looking  first-rate.     How  — . " ' 

' '  Just  so.  But  I  hear  your  family  is  very  much  reduced 
in  size,  compared  with  what  it  used  to  be  fifteen  years  ago. 
How  well  I  remember,  now,  that  when  my  missus  give  one  of 
your  boys  and  any  of  the  neighbors'  boys  a  hunk  of  bread 
and  molasses,  your  boy'd  gobble  his'n  down  so  almighty 
suddent  that  it  would  fill  a  tramp,  'most,  with  pity  for  him  ; 
but  t'other  boy'd  nibble  a  mouthful  off  and  on,  and  tell  us 
the  news  about  the  folks  to  home  and  his  sisters'  beaux,  and 
feeze  off  and  on,  and  bimeby,  if  you  didn't  watch  him  pretty 
sharp,  he'd  up  and  give  more'ii  half  his  piece  to  our  old 
dog." 

"  Oh,  that's  how  you  kep'  your  dog,  I  ippose?  That's 
why  he  always  had  the  mange,  and  poorheaUfi,  and  a  sickly 
constitution,  ain't  it,  'cause  he  got  too  mnch  of  your  own 
bread  and  molasses  ?  " 

"  I  dunno  about  that ;  your  boys  always  seemed  to  bear  up 


l8o 


A  Severe  Test. 


under  the  diet  my  missus  doled  out  to  'cm  —  atul  thrived  on 
it,  too.  But,  I  say,  what's  the  cause  of  your  family's  being 
weeded  out  so?  Hain't  starved  any  of  'em  scnce  our  folks 
left  these  diggings,  I  reckon  ?  " 

"(ireai  Orsar's  _^/tosi /—Well  my  girls  are  mostly 
married  off,— and  you  bet  they're  well  married,  too, —  and 
my    l)oys   are   mostly   settled   down   in    Colorado    and   the 

Dakotas." 

"I'm  mortal  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  Hiram.  Yes,  I 
don't  doubt  it ;  wouldn't  doubt  it  for  a  minute.  The  boys 
stood  it  just  as  long  as  they  could,  and  then  they  cleared  out. 
But  it's  a  mortal  shame  for  them  new  countries  to  be  settled 
by  under-fed  men.  Likely  as  not  they  didn't  grow  their 
growth  out,  now,  eh ?     I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"  See  here  !  Do  you  take  me  for  a  meek  man?  Do  you 
take  me  for  a  Quaker,  now  ?  Do  you  take  me  for  a  weak, 
helpless,  worn-out  old  pop-corn  man?  Do  you  calculate  on 
my  muscles'  being  paralyzed,  or  on  your  tender  spots'  being 
bomb-proof?  I  see  you  ain't  drunk,  and  you  needn't  expect 
I  hain't  no  feelings  to  outrage.  Do  you  expect  I  am  going 
to  let  this  sort  of  thing  continue  ?  See  here  !  I  hain't  joined 
no  peace-at-any-price  society  ;  I  hain't  leagued  myself  with 
no  anti-Nihilist  gang.  See  here  !  If  you  don't  look  out,  I 
shall  be  sent  to  jail  for  six  months,  for  assault  and  battery;  — 
and  jott  won't  be  a  mighty  sight  better  off  !  " 

"  Come,  now  ;  don't  get  r'iled,  Hiram.—  But  really,  now, 
don't  you  sometimes  think  that  pri.son  fare  would  have  been 
a  good  change  for  your  boys,  when—." 
"  I  warned  you  !  " 

"Golly,  Hiram!  'Pon  my  word,  you  can  light  out  as 
reckless  a  blow  with  that  fist  of  your'n  as  an  old  Revolu- 
tionary musket !  You  can  rely  on  it  this  bruise  'U  smell  of 
Thomas's  oil  to-night.     A  little  more  practice,  Hiram,  and 


I 


thrived  on 
lily's  lieiiiK 
L'  our  folks 

are    mostly 

too,  —  and 

lo   and   the 

ini.     Yes,  I 

The  boys 

cleared  out. 

0  be  settled 
t  grow  their 

n  ?  Do  you 
for  a  weak, 
calculate  on 
spots'  being 
:edn't  expect 

1  am  going 
hain't  joined 

myself  with 
:  look  out,  I 
id  battery;  — 

:  really,  now, 
Id  have  been 


light  out  as 

old  Revolu- 

se  '11  smell  of 

!,  Hiram,  and 


A  Severe  Test. 


I8l 


you'd  'a'  bunged  my  eye  into  my  brain.  I  didn't  mean  to 
wound  your  family  feelings  right  up  to  a  pommelling  p'int  ; 
but  I  heard  you'd  swore  off  on  all  cuss  words,  and  I  told  the 
boys  I  wouldn't  believe  it  till  !  tested  you.  So  I  struck  out 
on  this  here  starvation  racket,  becau.se  I  knowed  it  was  a 
good  one.  I  didn't  make  you  swear  worth  a  cent,  though 
you  came  powerful  nigh  it  once  or  twice  ;  but  I'd  feel  some 
better  off  if  things  had  turned  out  as  I  expected.  All  the 
same,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Hiram,  for  you  was  provoked. 
I'll  forgive  you,  too,  for  this  here  bruise  ;  for  I  deserved  it, 
and  you  always  tried  to  be  a  pretty  good  neighbor.  Let's  call 
it  square." 

"  Durnedif  Idon't!" 


T'#«<r^  .=^.*asi* 


■^irngmmmmmmmmsmm 


iHi 


7he  Loiig-Siifft'riiij(  'Tramp. 


THE   LONG-SUFFERING   TRAMP. 


a 


G 


OT  any  employment  here  for  an  able-bodied  man, 
that  wants  something  to  do?  "  inquired  a  jaunty- 
looking  tramp,  as  he  stepped  into  the  printing-office  of  a  lo- 
cal weekly  newspaper  that  terrorized  over  a  quiet  Hoosier 
town. 

"  Want  to  make  your  fortune,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  a  blonde 
young  man,  who  had  begun  parting  his  luxuriant  hair  in  the 
middle  the  next  day  after  his  mother  left  off  combing  it  for 
him. 

"  Yes,"  put  in  another  fawn-colored  youth,  who  sported  a 
home-made  watch-chain,  sagged  down  in  the  middle  by  a 
shining  brass  watch-key.  "  Yes,  indeed  ;  he  looks  as  if  he 
needed  to  make  a  fortune  pretty  badly." 

"  A  fortune  —  or  even  a  hunk  of  a  one  !  "  supplemented 
the  office-boy,  coming  out  of  his  corner.  "  »Say,  mister, 
what  kind  of  employment  have  you  mostly  been  used  to 
lately?" 

"Oh,  any  soft  snap  like  you  fellows  have,  that  pays  a 
man's  board  for  sitting  around  and  keeping  his  hair  combed," 
said  the  tramp  cheerfully.  Then  fiendishly  :  "1  guess  I 
know  better' n  to  think  there's  any  fortune  to  be  made  here." 

"  I  don't  suppose  the  man  ever  had  more  than  two  bits  in 
his  life,"  said  the  blonde  with  the  luxuriant  crop  of  hair, 
ruminating  on  his  own  princely  revenues,  which  could  afford 
him  a  treat  of  cigarettes  and  peanuts  every  other  day. 


I  MP. 

odied  man, 
1  a  jaunty- 
fice  of  a  lo- 
iet  Hoosier 

id  a  blonde 
t  hair  in  the 
nbing  it  for 

ID  sported  a 
liddle  by  a 
oks  as  if  he 

pplemented 
ay,  mister, 
;en  used  to 

Lhat  pays  a 
Ir  combed," 
' '  1  gness  I 
nadehere." 
two  bits  in 
rop  of  hair, 
could  afford 
r  day. 


7be  Lonn-Snffering  Tramp. 


•«3 


"Hadn't,  ch?"  snorted  the  tramp.  "I  once  owned  a 
hull  town,  out  in  Arizona." 

"  But  now  ?  To-day?"  insisted  the  blonde  with  the  watch- 
key. 
•    "  Well,  sotniy,  I  ain't  busted  plumb  to  shucks  to-day." 

"No,"  said  the  carefully  combed  blonde,  "I  suppose 
you've  got  a  brass  watch,  and  an  old  satchel  hidden  away 
behind  the  freight-shed,  and  some  cold  goo.se  somewhere  in 
your  frouzy  overcoat,  and  a  horn  of  apple-jack  in  your  pistol- 
pocket.  ' ' 

"And  'most  a  dozen  cigar-stumps  tucked  away  in  yer 
grea.sy  vest,"  chimed  in  the  office-boy. 

"You  be  hanged!"  snarled  the  tramp.  "How  many 
times  a  week  does  your  parents  have  to  clean  the  cigar-stumps 
out  of  ^yt^K^  pockets  ?  Or,"  sardonically,  "do  you  manage 
to  find  time  to  smoke  'em  all  ? " 

"  What's  the  matter?"  roar6d  the  "editor  atid  proprietor," 
opening  the  door  leading  into  his  "sanctum,"  and  cmniug 
his  bald  head  into  view. 

"  I'm  poking  fun  at  these  chicken-pocked  noodles  here, 
stranger,"  explained  the  tramp. 

"  What  you  want  ?"  .shouted  the  "  editor  and  proprietor," 
jumping  to  his  feet,  while  all  the  ink  which,  in  the  course  of 
years,  had  been  absorbed  by  his  fingers,  oozed  out  again  into 
his  face,  making  it  black. 

"  Well,  I  was  thinking  I'd  like  a  little  employment ;  but 
I  ain't  very  particular  about  it  to-aay,  I  guess,  anyway." 

"I'll  give  you  a  little  employment,  though,  all  the  same. 
You  just  step  down  and  out  into  the  street,  and  turn  towards 
the  setting  sun,  and  keep  straight  on  till  you  begin  to  per- 
spire freely." 

"Well,  old  chump,  I  guess  I'll  accept  your  kind  offer," 


r/5 


1 84 


7be  Long-Sttffering  Tramp. 


said  the  tramp.  "  Good  day,  gamins  ;  I'm  sure  you'll  give 
me  a  good  '  send  off'  in  your  snide  paper." 

"  Good  day,"  sang  out  the  office-boy.  "I  guess  'keep- 
ing straight  on'  is  the  kind  of  employment  you've  mostly 
been  used  to  lately." 

Then  the  "  editor  and  proprietor  "  locked  himself  up  in  his 
sanctum  and  wrote  a  double-leaded  editorial  on  Rampant 
Vagabondism,  proving  conclusively  that  the  Administration 
will  lose  the  next  Election,  if  it  can  not  protect  honest,  hard- 
working citizens  from  the  insults  of  the  unshorn,  ravening, 
audacious  tramp. 


f 


So  Let  T>eath  Haste. 


185 


you'll  give 


iess  'keep- 
ve  mostly 

;lf  up  in  his 
1  Rampant 
ministration 
onest,  hard- 
I,  ravening, 


« 


SO  LET  DEATH  HASTE. 

The  iiiooii  that  you  have  loved,  I've  loved  her,  too ; 
Not  that  I've  basked  in  her  mild  light  so  oft, 
Or  drunk  her  radiance  with  eyes  so  soft, 
Or  that  sweet,  dreamy  pleasure  ever  knew. 

That  has  been  yours,  as  in  the  evening  dew 

You  wandered  joyous  through  the  little  croft 

To  your  loved  stream.     The  days  of  childhood  doft. 

How  often  have  you  bade  a  fond  adieu 

To  one  who  proved  the  hero  who  should  keep 

Your  heart,  'gainst  suitors  all,  'neath  Luna's  light. 
I  loved  you  with  a  madness  that  could  weep 

Your  coldness,  though  it  won  but  your  despite. — 
Mayhap  your  inmost  thoughts  in  my  death-sleep 
I'll  know,  so  quit  this  life,  and  yield  the  fight. 


'Tis  winter  now,  but  ere  come  summer's  heat 

O'er  my  lone  grave  your  dear-loved  silver  moon 
Will  fitful  shine,  through  glorious  nights  in  June, 
While  forth  you  wander,  to  hold  converse  sweet 

With  one  you  love  so  well,  and  low  repeat 

Fond  vows  to  him  alone,  or  love-songs  croon. 
So  let  spring  come ;  it  brings  a  lasting  boon  ; 
I've  loved  my  last,  and  known  my  last  defeat. 

You  will  not  laugh  at  me,  I  can  not  think. 

When  I  am  still  in  death,  nor  one  tear  waste ; 
I  would  not  have  it  so.    To  rest  I  sink 

That  you  have  peace.     It  may  be  I  shall  taste 
The  red  lips  you  denied  me,  and  shall  drink 
Their  sweetness  in  my  sleep.     So  let  death  haste. 


1 86 


How  the  Hatchet  Came  to  be  Buried. 


HOW  THE  HATCHET  CAME  TO  BE 
BURIED. 

An  Allkgory. 


TO  THE  MEMORY 
OF  THE  LATE  LAMENTED  CAPTAIN  KID, 
WHO  NEVER  STOLE  ANYTHING  FROM  ME,  OR  DID  ME  ANY 

HARM, 
AND  FOR  WHOM  I  CHEERFULLY  SPEAK  A  GOOD  WORD. 


^^  A  LL  things  come  to  him  who  waits."  including  the 

r\    opportunity  for  vindication. 

Thus  it  fell  out  with  a  young  man,  who,  apparently,  was  as 
powerless  to  avenge  himself  of  cruel  injustice  done  him  as  the 
mouse  caught  in  a  trap  is  powerless  to  retaliate  on  its  human 
captors. 

But  what  is  impossible  to  that  man  who  is  resolved  to 
accomplish  his  purpose?  In  fact,  in  this  case  the  ways  and 
means  came  about  so  easily  and  naturally  that  it  seemed  a 
manifest  destiny  he  should  make  use  of  them.  In  a  word,  he 
would  write  up  the  history  of  his  wrongs,  and  give  it  to  the 


1 


How  the  Hatchet  Came  to  be  Buried. 


187 


O  BE 


(ID  ME  ANY 
>D  WORD. 

:luding  the 

mtly,  was  as 
e  him  as  the 
n  its  human 

resolved  to 
be  ways  and 

it  seemed  a 
n  a  word,  he 
ive  it  to  the 


world  in  the  form-of  an  amusing  novel.  To  the  limited  num- 
ber of  people  who  were  indifferently  well  acquainted  with  the 
facts,  it  would  be  a  revelation  ;  to  the  great  outside  world,  it 
would  simply  be  another  of  those  readable  books  that  are  at 
once  vaguely  characterized  as  having  been  written  "  with  a 
purpose. ' '  As  for  the  interested  persons  themselves,  it  would 
probably  always  remain  a  sealed  book  to  them,  for  they  were 
to  be  so  mercilessly  exposed  that  no  sane  individual  could 
expect  them  to  get  beyond  the  fifth  or  sixth  chapter. 

It  was  a  pretty  scheme,  and  ever>'thing  seemed  to  favor  it. 
In  the  first  place,  he  had  .several  damning  letters,  which 
had  been  written  to  him,  to  quote  from,  so  that  he  could  con- 
demn the  enemy  "  out  of  his  own  mouth  ;  "  and  in  the  next 
place,  by  revisiting  his  old  home  he  got  possession  of  a  great 
ma.ss  of  evidence,  that  would  materially  strengthen  his  case. 

It  was  a  complicated  history,  and  the  young  man,  who  may 
be  called  Despierto  Aniquilando  Nemesis  (which  is  a  more 
poetical  and  sonorous  name  than  his  baptismal  one),  soon 
found  that  it  would  not  be  necessary  to  deviate  a  jot  from  the 
truth  to  make  it  interesting.  Indeed,  every  trifling  incident 
seemed  to  fit  into  the  frame-work  of  his  plot  so  naturally  that 
he  could  not  help  felicitating  himself  on  his  unique  scheme 
of  retribution. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  events  happened  that  in- 
duced him  to  call  a  halt,  and  he  found  that  it  would  be  expe- 
dient to  drop  out  one  or  two  supernumerary  characters  and 
quite  necessary  to  introduce  some  others.  Some  whom  he  had 
fondly  thought  guiltless  he  found  to  be  as  culpable  as  the 
principals ;  and,  singularly  enough,  they  possessed  character- 
istics that  would  show  admirably  in  his  story,  and  relieve  its 
occasional  monotony — a  monotony  that  could  not  be  avoided 
so  long  as  the  truth  was  rigidly  adhered  to.     For  what  is 


-w-  -^ 


l88 


How  the  Hatchet  Came  to  be  Buried. 


more  monotonous  than  a  life  of  hardship  ?  This  being  the 
case,  he  determined  to  introduce  some  new  features,  and  blend 
the  pathetic  with  the  ridiculous. 

Everything  favored  the  growth  of  the  story.  Despierto 
was  not  altogether  a  novice  with  the  pen  ;  otherwise  he  would 
not  have  undertaken  a  work  of  such  magnitude.  But  he  was 
staking  his  reputation  on  the  book,  and  he  worked  with  ex- 
treme care  and  deliberation.  He  considered  his  cause  a  just 
and  holy  one,  and  wished  to  prove  equal  to  the  task  he  had 
set  himself,  and  to  make  his  book  a  faithful  exponent  of  his 
wrongs. 

It  was  highly  important  to  him  to  know  how  a  petty  ca.se  at 
law  would  be  conducted  —  and  strangely  enough,  a  case  arose 
in  which  he  was  first  plaintiflf  and  afterwards  defendant.  He 
thought  this  a  hardship  at  first,  as  it  consumed  a  great  deal 
of  his  time  and  was  an  insufferable  annoyance  ;  but  what  of 
this,  when  he  had  obtained,  from  personal  experience,  the  very 
information  he  so  much  needed  ?  This  was  not  all :  the  one 
thing  that  troubled  him  was  how  to  wind  up,  exactly 
how  to  color  the  catastrophe  ;  and  here  was  his  opportunity. 
He  saw  in  a  flash  that  this  last  event  could  be  skillfully 
worked  in,  so  artlessly  that  it  would  seem  to  have  been  pre- 
determined upon  from  the  outset. 

All  incidejits  in  the  book  were  now  harmoniously  bal- 
anced, and  in  its  completed  state  he  found  that  it  fully 
justified  his  expectations.  An  impartial  critic  would  not 
hesitate  to  pronounce  it  worthy  of  Despierto' s  vengeance,  and 
an  intelligent  public  would  not  fail  cautiously  to  admit  that 
the  new  author  had  got  there  with  both  feet.  At  least, 
so  reasoned  Despierto.  He  went  further ;  he  even  fancied 
that  if  his  enemies  (as  he  persisted  in  regarding  them,  though 
he  never  spoke  of  them,  either  for  good  or  for  evil,  outside 


being  the 
and  blend 

Despierto 
2  he  would 
3ut  he  was 
1  with  ex- 
luse  a  just 
sk  he  had 
lent  of  his 

;tty  case  at 
,  case  arose 
dant.  He 
great  deal 
lut  what  of 
:e,  the  very 
1  :  the  one 
p,  exactly 
>portunity. 
;  skillfully 
;  been  pre- 

ously  bal- 
it  it  fully 
would  not 
;eance,  and 
idmit  that 
At  least, 
en  fancied 
;m,  though 
I'il,  outside 


How  the  Hatchet  Came  to  be  Buried. 


189 


the  family  circle)  could  be  brought  to  read  it  dispassionately, 
they  would  be  obliged  to  acknowledge  its  merits.  He  forgot, 
foolish  fellow,  that  however  just  criticism  may  be,  it  is  never 
tolerated  by  the  criticized.  And  what  i:i  the  truth  but  a 
species  of  criticism  ? 

Yes,  the  book  was  written  ;  all  that  was  now  necessary  was 
to  find  a  publisher  worthy  of  it.  And  here  is  wherein  lies  the 
raison  d'iire  of  our  tale.  Despierto  received  a  conditional 
offer  from  a  publishing  house.  It  was  not  specially  tempting, 
but  the  house  was  an  honorable  one,  and  had  prestige  enough 
to  assure  the  success  of  any  book  of  real  merit  that  it  might 
issue,  however  obscure  the  author.  One  would  naturally 
think  Despierto  would  consider  himself  a  made  man,  and  ac- 
cept the  offer  by  telegram,  instead  of  waiting  for  a  letter  to 
reach  the  publishers. 

Instead  of  doing  this,  he  at  once  began  to  show  symptoms 
of  that  strange  contrariety  that  we  sometimes  see  in  human 
nature,  but  never  in  the  lower  animals,  and  which  proves 
that  Solomon  was  in  the  right  when  he  advised  the  sluggard 
to  go  to  the  ANT,  consider  her  ways,  and  be  wise.  Briefly, 
Despierto  repented  himself  of  his  scheme  of  vindication.  He 
put  the  case  to  himself  in  a  blunt,  repellent  way  that  fairly 
staggered  him.  "Because  an  Indian  does  his  best  to  scalp 
me,"  he  said  to  himself,  "is  that  any  reason  why  I  should  turn 
to,  and  scalp  him,  when  chance  throws  him  upon  my  mercy  ? 
For  instead  of  Providence  delivering  my  enemies  into  my 
hand  to  destroy  them,  perhaps  it  was  to  spare  them.  Sol 
will  do  as  David  did  to  old  man  Saul,  I  will  content  myself 
with  chopping  off  their  coat-tails,  figuratively  speaking. 
They  never  had  any  notion  of  magnanimity,  and  till  now,  I 
have  had  none.     Perhips  they  are  too  old  in  heart  to  learn  ; 


r 


190 


How  the  Hatchet  Came  to  be  Buried. 


but  /am  not,  and  I  will  think  twice  before  I  fire  my  bomb- 
shell into  their  camp. ' ' 

The  next  day  Despierto  thought  better  of  his  good  resolu- 
tions, and  was  on  the  point  of  writing  the  publishers,  when 
he  again  hesitated.  At  length  he  decided  on  taking  three 
days  to  think  the  matter  over.  He  began  to  wish  that  he 
had  not  put  his  case  quite  so  strongly —or  rather,  that  he 
had  not  told  the  bitter  truth  with  so  much  engaging  frank- 
ness. 

But  it  was  not  without  a  terrible  struggle  that  Despierto's 
better  nature  finally  triumphed  and  he  was  master  of  himself. 
Virtue,  in  this  instance,  was  not  its  own  reward.  The  young 
man's  resources  ran  low,  as  he  had  anticipated  them  while 
engaged  in  writing  his  book,  in  the  certainty  of  being  able 
to  effect  its  immediate  sale.  He  was  forced  to  get  into  debt, 
in  a  small  way  —  debts  that  would  not  have  troubled  a  care- 
less man,  but  which  Despierto  felt  keenly,  as  he  had  no 
instant  prospect  of  paying  them  oflF.  The  precious  time  he 
had  devoted  to  his  new  book  was  irredeemable.  Despierto 
neither  asked  for  nor  expected  sympathy,  and  told  no  one 
his  troubles ;  but  sometimes  in  his  desperation  he  felt  like 
cursing  all  mankind,  and  almost  wished  he  had  introduced 
a  great  many  others  into  his  book  in  the  garb  of  villains, 
and  painted  all  his  bad  characters  blacker  than  he  had 

done. 

This  period  in  Despierto's  life  is  so  dark  that  it  were  best 
to  pass  it  over.  He  had  waited  before,  and  the  opportunity 
to  vindicate  himself  had  come,  and  now  another  weary  time 
of  waiting  brought  its  changes. 

He  showed  his  manuscript,  after  the  darkness  had  in  a 
measure  passed  away,  to  but  one  friend  —  a  friend  who  could 


How  the  Hatchet  Came  to  be  Buried. 


191 


e  my  bomb- 

jood  resolu- 
shers,  when 
aking  three 
nsh  that  he 
aer,  that  he 
ging  frank- 

Despierto's 
r  of  himself. 
The  young 
them  while 
"  being  able 
et  into  debt, 
ibled  a  care- 
he  had  no 
ous  time  he 
Despierto 
told  no  one 
he  felt  like 
i  introduced 
)  of  villains, 
iian  he  had 

it  were  best 

opportunity 

r  weary  time 

ess  had  in  a 
id  who  could 


be  implicitly  trusted.  The  conversation  that  was  held 
when  his  friend  returned  it  is  given  herewith  :  — 

"  If  you  have  told  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth,"  said  his  friend,  who,  since  he  could  not  easily  be 
called  a  wor.se  name,  may  be  called  Orgulloso  Apesadum- 
brado  De.sagrdvio,  "  I  don't  see  why  you  should  hesitate  one 
moment  to  give  this  to  the  world,  which  always  sympathizes 
with  the  down-trodden." 

"  It  is  absolutely  tnie,"  replied  Despierto,  "even  to  min- 
utiae. Of  course  there  are  anachronisms, —  lots  of  them, — 
but  they  don't  count.  You  will  have  noticed  that  I  show 
myself  as  having  been  in  the  wrong  on  one  occasion.  But  I 
wish  to  forget  my  enemies,  and  so  forgive  them.  You  know 
the  Divine  command  is,  'Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not  judged.' 
The  chances  are  that  at  the  last  day  we  shall  all  need  all  the 
mercy  we  can  get.  Mind  you,  I  dcn't  lay  claim  to  any  great 
virtue  in  taking  this  course";  it  is  as  much  a  question  of 
indignation  that  has  burnt  itself  out,  as  of  forbearance." 

' '  Yes,  but  as  I  take  it,  it  never  was  a  question  of  venge- 
ance with  you,  but  simply  of  vindication.  I  will  confess  to 
you,  Despierto,  that  at  first  I  was  a  little  bit  jealous  of  your 
work,  and  I  was  prepared  to  agree  with  you  that  it  should 
be  withheld.  But  I  overcame  my  unworthy  feeling  of  jeal- 
ousy, and  now  I  strongly  advise  you  to  publish  it,  and  let 
your  enemies  take  the  consequences.  Send  it  to  the  same 
publishers,  if  they  are  still  prepared  to  accept  it,  and  let  your 
thunderbolt  fall.  According  to  your  showing,  they  had  no 
mercy  on  you,  when  common  humanity  should  have 
prompted  them  to  mercy." 

"No,  perhaps  not.  But  why  should  I  adopt  their 
tactics  ?  ^Nemo  me  impuiie  lacessit '  may  be  a  good  enough 
watch- word,  but  there  are  better  ones." 


.  ;.-:;v_..:i=>f^'' 


193 


How  the  Hatchet  Came  to  be  Buried. 


"Do  they  know  about  this  scheme  of  yours?  And  are 
you  sure  it  would  have  the  effect  you  anticipated  ?  " 

"Yes,  they  knew  all  about  it  from  the  first,  and  were 
ashamed  enough.     Their  shame  ought  to  satisfy  me." 

"No,  Despierto ;  it  is  one  thing  to  be  ashamed,  and  an- 
other to  be  repentant.  They  will  laugh  at  you  for  being  so 
Quixotic." 

' '  They  don't  know  the  meaning  of  your  Quixotism.  As 
for  their  bad  opinion,  I  have  always  had  it,  and  always  ex- 
pect to  have  it.  It  has  neither  hurt  me  nor  annoyed  me.  If 
I  can  enjoy  a  tranquillized  conscience  and  a  feeling  of  being 
more  civilized  than  I  was  before,  what  is  the  odds  what  their 
opinion  may  be  ?  " 

"I  will  speak  bluntly  with  you,  Despierto,  and  tell  you 
WxdXyou  don't  know  the  meaning  of  the  term  'civilization.' 
If  you  were  out  on  the  plains,  in  danger  of  being  eaten  alive 
by  wolves,  would  your  superior  civilization  forbid  your  shoot- 
ing the.se  wolves  ? ' ' 

"What  would  be  the  use  of  shooting  them,  if  I  could 
intimidate  them  in  some  other  way  ?  If  all  the  world  went 
about  avenging  private  wrongs,  this  planet  would  soon  be 
given  over  to  the  wolves.  Come,  I  don't  wish  to  pose  as  an 
Indian  brave,  who  must  have  the  scalp  of  everybody  who 
insults  him.  Besides,  in  this  instance,  some  innocent  peo- 
ple would  .suffer  with  the  guilty,  and  that  would  be  outra- 
geous." 

"That  is  your  one  rational  argument.  Is  there  noway 
to  get  around  it,  though  ?     How  many  of  these  innocents 

are  there  ?  ' ' 

"  Enough  to  form  a  picnic  party  all  by  themselves." 
"Well,  how  do  you  know  your  book  would  affect  any- 
body, in  any  way  whatsoever?  " 


How  the  Hatchet  Came  to  be  Buried. 


•93 


j  ?  And  are 
I?" 

t,  and  were 
'  me." 

ned,  and  an- 
for  being  so 

:oTiSM.  As 
\  always  ex- 
oyed  me.  If 
ling  of  being 
Is  what  their 

ind  tell  you 
civilization.' 
g  eaten  alive 
i  your  shoot- 

i,  if  I  could 
;  world  went 
ould  soon  be 
to  pose  as  an 
erybody  who 
nnocent  peo- 
ild  be  outra- 

here  no  way 
:se  innocents 

selves." 

i  affect  any- 


"  Because  I  tried  the  experiment,  in  a  small  way,  some 
years  ago,  and  twice  since  ;  but  I  never  learned  its  effect  but 
once." 

"  Well,  did  it  have  the  effect  you  anticipated  for  it?" 

"Even  greater;  I  was  utterly  astonished  at  the  result. 
But  I  afterwards  fraternized  with  my  antagonist,  and  we 
called  it  'square.'  " 

"  And  do  you  expect  to  '  fraternize '  again,  in  this  case, 
Despierto  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  dear,  no  ;  as  I  told  you,  I  wish  to  forget,  and  so 
forgive.  I  never  could  bear  to  punish  anything — not  even 
my  dog." 

"  And  I  dare  say  your  dog  was  the  most  notorious  one  in 
the  neighborhood.  Your  enemies  will  misinterpret  your 
motives,  and  persecute  you  as  of  old,  if  occasion  should 
arise.  'Even  the  worm  wijl  turn,'  but  you  won't,  eh? 
Then  you  may  expect  to  be  insulted  and  ill-treated  ;  though 
I  dare  say  you  could  once  have  quoted  Scripture  to  prove 
you  were  all  right  in  your  scheme  of  retaliation." 

' '  Certainly  I  could  have.  But  I  am  not  doing  anything 
out  of  the  common  way  ;  don't  you  remember  that  in  Shake- 
speare's play  of  '  Measure  for  Measure,'  even  the  scoun- 
drel Angelo  is  pardoned  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  he  doesn't  deserve  it,  and  is  first  exposed." 

"  Consider  Lynch  Law,  Orgulloso.  It  is  better  than  no 
justice  at  all  ;  but  the  vigilantes  are  not  the  most  civilized 
men  in  the  world.  And  I  have  found  that  others  might 
have  treated  me  almost  as  cruelly,  had  they  had  the 
opportunity.  I  thought  I  had  a  wide  experience  of  human 
nature,  but  this  spring  I  learned  something  new.  Did  you 
ever  find  yourself  hard  up,  Orgulloso  ?  " 

"  Once  ;  and  man's  inhumanity  broke  my  heart." 


194 


How  the  Hatchet  Came  to  be  Buried. 


"  Well,  that  was  ray  predicament.  If  I  had  let  the  book 
go— ." 

"Exactly;  you  spared  your  enemies  at  the  expense  of 
ruining  your  fortunes." 

"Yes;  but,  Orgulloso,  it  gave  me  the  opportunity  of  a 
life-time  to  prove  my  friends.  At  one  time  I  told  every- 
body that  I  was  going  away  next  week  —  always  next  week 
—  and  they  fell  away  from  me  daily.  If  they  chose  to 
think  I  meant  mischief,  I  let  them  think  so  ;  till  at  last — ." 

"  Proving  your  friends,  eh  ?  And  how  did  you  come  out? 
Not  much  better  than  '  Timon  of  Athens, '  I  warrant  you. ' ' 

' '  Not  a  great  deal  better,  perhaps.  There  were  some  old 
friends,  that  stuck  to  me  like  a  bur;  and  one,  whom  our  peo- 
ple had  befriended,  away  back  in  the  'fifties,  took  half  an  hour 
to  explain  why  — ." 

"  I  understand  it  all.  'Away  back  in  the  'Fifties  '  is  the 
name  of  your  initial  chapter.  Say,  what  are  you  going  to 
do  with  your  book  ?  Going  to  lay  it  in  the  grate,  and  put  a 
match  to  it,  and  so  sacrifice  it  to  your  absurd  whims  ? " 

"  No ;  for  that  would  certainly  fire  the  soot,  and  so  the  roof. 
No  ;  I  will  keep  it ;  and  if  I  ever  feel  the  old  bitteme.ss  again, 
in  all  its  intensity,  I  will  dust  it  off  and  read  it  over — bitter- 
ness, book,  and  all." 

"  So  you  are  content  to  have  a  year  cut  out  of  your  life, 
to  all  eternity  !  " 

"  Not  altogether  lost  time,  however.  I  am  stronger  than 
I  was  a  year  ago  —  I  hope,  more  generous. ' ' 

"  Don't  you  recall  what  the  old  philosopher  used  to  say, 
Despierto,  that  it  is  better  to  be  just  than  to  be  generous  ? 
Are  you  wiser  than  he  ? " 

"  You  put  a  wrong  construction  on  that,  Orgulloso.  Be- 
sides, I  mean  to  '  remodel '  the  book,  and  bring  it  out  yet." 


d  let  the  book 

le  expense  of 

wrtunity  of  a 
I  told  every- 
ays  next  week 
they  chose  to 
till  at  last— ." 
^ou  come  out  ? 
varrant  you." 
were  some  old 
vhom  our  peo- 
k  half  an  hour 

Fifties  •  is  the 
;  you  going  to 
-ate,  and  put  a 
ivhims?" 
md  so  the  roof 
ttemess  again, 
;  over — bitter- 
it  of  your  life, 
stronger  than 

:r  used  to  say, 
be  generous? 

rgulloso.     Be- 
git  out  yet." 


How  the  Hatchet  Came  to  he  Buried. 


195 


"  You  can't  do  that.  A  man-of-war  might  as  well  be 
cut  down  into  a  merchantman.  It  wouldn't  prove  .sea- 
worthy." 

"  You  don't  understand  me.  I  shall  re- write  the  entire 
book,  using  such  timbers,  to  follow  your  nautical  phrase,  as 
can  be  made  to  fit  into  the  new  craft." 

"Well,  Despierto,  if  you  leave  out  the  twenty -eighth 
chapter,  you  will  sink  your  ship.  If  the  first  one  never 
leaves  port,  the  second  will  never  make  it." 

"  I  hope  the  contrary,  and  will  risk  it." 

' '  Your  new  book  will  be  like  a  man  without  any  nerves  in 
his  organization,  or  like  a  ship  without  any  crew  to  man  and 
sail  her." 

' '  Perhaps  so ;  perhaps  you  underrate  my  resources.  In 
any  case,  it  would  be  more  like  the  captain  of  a  peaceable 
and  respectable  ocean  liner  than  like  a  swaggering  old  pirate 
chief,  with  a  blood-stained  cutlass  in  one  hand  and  a  horse- 
pistol  in  the  other,  minus  both  his  thumbs  and  short  a  knee- 
cap." 

"Just  so,  Despierto;  you  will  be  taken  for  a  boasting, 
blustering  fellow  yourself,  whose  words  are  mere  bluff. 
And  see  here,  is  not  your  pirate  chief  a  greater  favorite 
with  the  general  run  of  readers  than  your  ocean  captain,  who 
couldn't  properly  load  a  horse-pistol,  if  his  life  depended  on 
it  ?  But  seriously,  you  do  wrong  to  instance  the  pirate  in 
your  comparisons ;  to  suggest  the  commander  of  a  man-of 
war,  commissioned  to  make  reprisals  on  the  enemy,  would 
be  a  neater  way  of  putting  it." 

' '  Yes,  but  you  see  in  my  book  they  are  pretty  much  all 
rascals,  and  quasi  pirates,  and  id  genus  fitnne." 

"  To  be  sure  ;  I  counted  them,  and  you  have  managed  to 
pick  up  SEVEN  DEVILS.     Any  one  would  naturally  infer  that 


J 


II 


196 


How  the  Hatchet  Came  to  be  Buried. 


< 


you  had  l)een  down  to  Jericho,  ami  had  fallen  atnonR  thieves, 
surely  enough." 

"Just  so  ;  my  ink  ran  a  little  too  black.  To  return  to  our 
tomahawking  Indian  again,  I  may  say  of  them  as  Mark 
Twain  once  said,  the  fact  that  an  Indian  likes  to  scalp  people 
is  no  evidence  that  he  likes  to  de  scalped." 

"  What  is  the  application,  Despierto  ?  " 

"  Because  they  enjoyed  fixing  up  a  gallows-tree  for  me,  as 
high  as  Haman's,  you  surely  don't  suppose  they  would  see 
any  fun  in  being  dragged  round  the  walls  of  their  own  Troy, 
do  you  ?  ' ' 

' '  But  suppose  they  should  open  fire  on  you  again  ; 
wouldn't  you  slip  the  cable,  and  let  the  good  ship  stand  out 
into  the  open,  with  '  NO  surrender  '  flying  slily  from  the 
mast-head  ? ' ' 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I  think  I  have  washed  the  war-paint  from 
my  face  for  good." 

"  Well,  will  you  let  me  read  your  book  again  ?  " 

"  Why  so  ?  It  must  be  such  an  undertaking  to  read  five 
hundred  pages  of  manuscript  that  I  thought  you  would  con- 
sider it  a  doubtful  compliment  to  be  asked  to  read  it  at  all." 

"It  takes  practice,  that's  all.  I  want  to  find  out  the 
reason  why  you  weakened  at  the  last  minute.  Why,  Des- 
pierto, you  are  throwing  away  the  opportunity  of  a  life-time. 
Your  enemies  could  never  pay  you  back  in  your  own  coin  — 
that  is,  lAey  could  never  write  either  a  readable  or  a  market- 
able book ;  and  if  they  should  attempt  it,  no  reputable 
publishing  house  would  take  it  up,  for  either  love  or  money. 
So  you  had  them  in  a  tight  place." 

"I  know  it;  but  you  know  'it  is  excellent  to  have  a 
giant's  strength  ;  but  it  is  tyrannous  to  use  it  like  agiant.'  " 

"True;  but  when  the  parties  of  the  first  part  were  the 


J. 

iton({  thieves, 

return  to  our 
lem  as  Mark 
3  scalp  people 


ree  for  nie,  as 
;y  would  see 
lir  own  Troy, 

you  again  ; 
lip  stand  out 
lily  from  the 

ar-paint  from 

I?" 

:  to  read  five 
)u  would  con- 
;adit  at  all." 
find  out  the 
Why,  Des- 
of  a  life-time. 
ir  own  coin  — 
or  a  market- 
no  reputable 
>ve  or  money. 

nt  to  have  a 
ike  agiant.' " 
part  were  the 


Hbw  the  Hatchet  Came  to  be  Buried. 


'97 


giants,  it  was  lawm-'L.  These  would  not  have  given  you 
leisure  to  mood  over  Shak^  i)eare,  nor  to  inciuire  into  the 
hnhits  <.S  the  genus  |)irate.  However,  argument  is  wasted 
on  you,  Des;  't^rto. — Well,  in  any  case,  you  niu.st  have  had 
lots  of  fun  while  writing  that  book  ?  " 

"I^tsof  it!" 

"Come,  now,  what  is  your  motive  in  throwing  up  the 
sponge  ? ' ' 

"  I  have  hinted  at  it  several  times;  now  I  will  tell  you  : 
/  don't  7vant  to  go  into  the  While  Cap  business  !  " 


198 


/4n  cMeitie  yerhrene  Liebste. 


GROANS  THAT  FOUND  UTTERANCE 
After  the  Vkvx,  of  the  Second  Babylon. 


An  Mbinb  VERI.ORENE  Liebstb. 


I. — To  Destiny  at  Last  I  Bow. 

With  cruel  drag  eight  weary  years 

Have  come  and  gone,  I  know  not  how. 
My  boyish  dreams  were  wide  of  truth, 
My  heart  is  not  the  heart  of  youth ; 
Yet  the  old  love  still  glows  within. 
Yours  the  one  smile  that  I  would  win. 

To  Destiny  at  last  I  bow, 

And  yield  vain  hopes  to  saddest  fears. 


II.— Thb  Scarce  and  Bitter  Fruit  of  the  Summer  of  1884. 

Would  to  God,  oh !  would  to  Heaven, 
That  these  days  and  nights  of  torment 
Might  give  place  to  just  one  moment 
Of  that  happiness  of  old  days. 
Which  I  knew  ere  yet  I  ventured 
To  write  books  and  dream  of  *  *  *  *  *; 
Which  I  knew  ere  either  sweetheart  — 
Either  ******  of  my  boyhood. 
Or  yet  *****  of  my  manhood  — 
Had  wrung  my  fond  heart  with  anguish, 
And  veiled  all  my  life  with  darkness. 
That  will  haunt  me  to  my  death-bed. 


VNCE 


LON. 


1th, 


vin. 


IIMEK  OP    1884. 


/In  iMeine  yerlorene  Liebste. 


III.— A  November  Moan. 

I  FIND  this  but  a  weary  world, 

That  holds  in  bondage  many  a  slave, 
And  I  the  chiefest ;  for  I  feol 

Such  crushing  blows  upon  me  hurled, 

By  friends,  by  foes,  and  by  that  knave 
Called  Fortune,  deaf  to  all  appeal. 

My  visions  the  same  shadows  cast. 
When  into  unborn  years  I  peer. 
With  anxious,  yet  with  hopeless  gaze, 

As  those  reflected  by  the  past ; 

Which  way  I  turn,  this  world's  no  cheer, 
Grief-laden  nights  succeed  drear  days. 

E'en  dreams  bring  to  me  haunting  fears. 
The  sick'ning  failures  of  a  dead 
Yet  living  past  are  lived  again  ; 

And  I,  since  naught  this  life  endears. 
Despairing  wish  for  death  ;  hope-fed 
No  more,  my  only  meat  is  pain. 

The  disappointments  of  the  years, 
The  dear  illusions  I  have  held. 
The  giant  wrongs  that  I  have  borne  — 

These  come  again,  as  day  appears. 

And  I,  awak'ning,  have  not  quelled 
The  sorrows  that  by  night  1  mourn. 

If  but  the  past  were  really  dead, 
If  I  might  know  to-morrow's  >un 
Would  rise  to  show  a  brighter  day, 

Would  rise  to  show  a  nightmare  fled! 

Could  I  but  know  the  worst  were  done, 
But  know  my  pain  were  gone  for  aye! 


199 


!| 


i  !• 


i 


i 


20O  An  tMeim  Verlorene  Ltebste. 


IV.— IvOVB  Me  Just  a  Litti^e,  Swebtheaht. 

LovB  me  just  a  little,  sweetheart, 
In  repayment  of  the  many 
Sad  and  weary  years  I've  worshipped 
Prom  afar,  with  rare  intrusions. 
Craving  now  and  then  a  letter. 
Once  entreating  for  your  picture. 
Yet  ne'er  forcing  my  attentions; 
Maddened  by  your  calm  indifF'rence, 
Stung  to  anguish  by  the  cruel 
Way  in  which  you  viewed  my  passion. 
Which  you  termed  infatuation. 
Yet  through  all  so  fondly  loving. 
Spite  of  all,  so  blindly  loyal ; 
And  if  ever  bitter  feelings 
Rose  in  angry  condemnation 
Of  your  treatment,  on  the  morrow 
It  repented  me  full  sorely. 

Love  me  just  a  little,  sweetheart, 
Is  the  last  of  my  petitions. 
Surely,  now  the  end  is  coming 
Of  a  life  that  you  deem  worthless, 
You  will  feel  a  woman's  pity, 
And  may  know  a  moment's  sorrow. 

Not  that  I  e'er  wished  to  pain  you. 
Or  now  think  that  any  lasting 
Grief  will  trouble  one  I  cherish, 
As  through  years  of  patient  suffering 
I  have  cherished  you,  unmindful. 
Yet  I  fancy  you  may  heed  me 
When  I  ask,  with  ebbing  pulses. 
For  the  love  I've  craved  so  fiercely. 

Nature  can  no  longer  struggle 
With  the  burdens  laid  upon  her. 
And  the  end  of  all  is  coming. 


/4«  IMeitie  l^erlorene  Liebste. 


20 1 


lEART. 


No  reproaches  now  I  utter; 

Nor  think  you  the  lire  self-taken, 

Which  is  worn  with  years  of  watching. 

Yet  a  last  time  I  would  ask  you, 
Ere  the  end  come,  swift  and  painless, 
Love  me  just  a  little,  sweetheart. 


v.— Adios,  N8I.1.Y,  Adios. 


Though  I  had  thought  to  love  you  for  all  time, 
My  best  beloved,  and  with  this  hope  had  borne 
With  fortune's  adverse  blows;  though  I  had  sworn 
To  keep  my  love  for  you  pure  through  the  grime 

Of  years,  and  trusted  that,  as  in  its  prime, 

So  it  would  e'er  remain,  till  death  had  worn 
Out  life,  and  at  one  fatal  stroke  had  torn 
Away  all  hope,  and  life,  and  love,  and  crime, 

And  buried  all  forever  in  -the  dark. 

Untroubled  grave ;  yet  now,  alas !  I  find 
This  love  may  die,  and  I  yet  live.    The  spark 

Of  life  as  well  dies  now,  bereft  of  blind, 

Unconquering  love  for  you,  who  ne'er  would  hark. 
So,  then,  farewell  to  all  this  world  unkind. 

But  a  visit  to  the  dentist  played  havoc  with  the  pretty  idea  of  "Adios.' 


r 


202 


Two  Incidents  in  a  "Brave  Man's  Life. 


TWO  INCIDENTS  IN  A  BRAVE  MAN'S 

LIFE. 

ABOUT  the  year  1787  Joseph  Trickey,  a  young  mechanic 
living  in  Cornwall,  England,  set  sail  for  Canada,  with 
the  intention  of  taking  up  land  along  the  St.  Lawrence  River. 
He  left  behind  him  kind  parents,  a  devoted  brother,  Henry, 
and  a  happy  home ;  but  being  naturally  of  a  roving  and  ad- 
venturous disposition  he  prepared  to  embark  with  a  light 
heart  and  with  no  fears  for  the  future.  Before  leaving  home  his 
friends,  from  far  and  near,  came  to  bid  him  a  tearful  farewell 
and  wish  him  every  success  in  his  hazardous  undertaking. 
Emigration  in  those  early  days  was  quite  diflFerent  from  what 
it  is  to-day;  it  was  then  only  daring  and  resolute  spirits  that 
had  the  hardihood  to  seek  their  fortune  in  the  wilds  of  the 
New  World. 

Joseph  was  to  write  home  immediately  on  his  arrival  in 
America.  But  weeks  lengthening  into  months  brought  no 
tidings  whatever  from  him.  At  that  period,  the  close  of  the 
last  century,  strange  ideas  were  entertained  in  England  re- 
specting the  newly-established  government  of  the  United 


H.J 


fe. 


Two  Incidents  in  a  'Brave  Man's  Life. 


203 


MAN'S 


iing  mechanic 
Canada,  with 
wrence  River, 
other,  Henry, 
oving  and  ad- 

with  a  light 
iring  home  his 
earful  farewell 
undertaking, 
mt  from  what 
ite  spirits  that 

wilds  of  the 

his  arrival  in 
iS  brought  no 
le  close  of  the 
I  England  re- 
>f  the  United 


States.  There  was  still,  of  course,  no  little  hostility  felt  to- 
wards the  enterprising  Americans,  who  had  dared  to  dispute 
the  supremacy  of  King  George,  assert  their  independence, 
and  maintain  it,  too.  Not  a  few  of  Joseph's  prejudiced 
friends  in  Cornwall  boldly  asserted  that  the  young  man  had 
been  enslaved,  imprisoned,  or  even  murdered  by  the  triumph- 
ant Americans  for  presuming  to  settle  in  Canada.  Joseph's 
mother  mourned  long  and  sorely  for  him,  and  after  eighteen 
months  of  weary  waiting,  sickened  and  died  ;  while  Henry 
Trickey,  senior,  the  father  of  the  family,  made  strenuous  but 
unavailing  efforts  to  trace  him,  or  to  find  out  what  his  fate 
had  been. 

After  the  lapse  of  two  years  the  younger  Henry  deter- 
mined to  go  in  search  of  his  lost  brother.  He  embarked  in 
a  merchantman  from  Plymouth  to  Quebec  direct,  "  working 
his  passage,"  as  his  brother  had  done  before  him. 

In  those  early  days  every  well-equipped  merchantman 
carried  at  least  one  heavy  cannon,  and  the  good  ship  Trans- 
port manned  a  couple  of  redoubtable  forty-pounders.  Henry 
was  a  resolute  young  fellow,  of  dauntless  courage  ;  but  the 
grim-looking  caimons  made  him  feel  the  more  at  ease.  It 
chanced  that  these  g^uns  were  needed.  One  morning,  in  mid 
ocean,  as  the  sun  rose  a  strange  ship  was  descried,  bearing 
down  upon  them  under  full  sail  —  a  piratical-looking  craft, 
beyond  all  question.  She  had  stolen  upon  them  during  the 
night,  and  could  probably  easily  overhaul  the  heavily-laden 
Transport.  The  captain,  however,  determined  to  crowd  on 
all  sail,  and  do  his  utmost  to  keep  clear  of  the  stranger  till 
night,  when,  under  cover  of  darkness,  he  might  hope  to  es- 
cape by  changing  his  course.  Captain  Lucas,  like  all  British 
seamen,  was  brave,  even  to  recklessness ;  but  his  policy,  as 


204 


Two  Incidents  in  a  'Brave  Man's  Life. 


commander  of  a  merchantman,  was  always  to  avoid  a  con- 
flict with  sea-rovers. 

On  sweeping  the  horizon  with  his  glass,  the  captain  made 
out  a  brig  to  the  southward,  far  in  advance  of  him.  He  fan- 
cied he  was  making  better  headway  than  this  ship,  and  if  he 
could  press  on  and  receive  assistance  from  her,  the  pirate  (if 
such  his  pursuer  should  prove  to  be)  would  perhaps  give  up 
the  chase.  The  sailors  piomptly  manned  the  yards,  and  soon 
every  available  sail  was  set  to  the  breeze,  which  was  fair  and 
steady.  Next  the  captain  had  the  ship's  small-arms  care- 
fully inspected  and  cleaned,  special  attention  also  being  paid 
to  the  big  guns.  The  port-holes  of  these  guns  were  then 
covered  with  canvas  ;  the  object  being  to  deceive  the  pirate, 
and  lure  him  on,  so  that  in  case  a  juncture  could  be  eflfected 
with  the  brig  to  the  southward,  he  might  find  that  he  had 
caught  a  Tartar. 

The  Transport,  of  course,  was  conspicuous  both  to  the 
ship  in  advance  and  in  the  rear,  although  these  had  mani- 
festly been  unable  as  yet  to  sight  each  other.  The  piratical- 
looking  stranger  was  perceived  to  be  steadily  gaining  on 
them,  and  towards  noon  Captain  Lucas,  seeing  that  escape 
was  impossible,  calmly  made  every  preparation  for  a  struggle. 
But  he  did  not  slacken  sail,  wishing  to  put  oS  the  rencounter 
as  long  as  might  be. 

The  ship  to  the  southward  was  now  made  out  to  be  an 
American  merchantman.  Captain  Lucas  apprised  her  by 
signals  of  his  danger,  and  she  at  once  hove  to.  A  further 
interchange  of  signals  showed  him  that  he  could  not  look 
for  any  but  moral  support  from  his  new-found  friend,  as  she 
carried  no  guns ;  but  she  made  preparations  to  intimidate 
the  pursuer. 


fe. 

avoid  a  con- 
captain  made 
im.  He  fan- 
hip,  and  if  he 
the  pirate  (if 
rhaps  give  up 
irds,  and  soon 
I  was  fair  and 
lU-arms  care- 
so  being  paid 
ns  were  then 
ve  the  pirate, 
lid  be  eflfected 
that  he  had 

both  to  the 
se  had  mani- 
The  piratical- 
y  gaining  on 
ig  that  escape 
for  a  struggle, 
he  rencounter 

out  to  be  an 
)rised  her  by 
o.  A  further 
>uld  not  look 
friend,  as  she 
to  intimidate 


Two  hicidents  in  a  'Brave  Man's  Life. 


205 


Meantime,  the  pirate,  for  such  she  undoubtedly  was, 
gained  rapidly  on  the  Transport.  At  two  o'clock  any  linger- 
ing doubt  as  to  her  real  character  was  dispelled  by  the  run- 
ning up  of  a  black  flag.  The  pirate  ship  evidently  perceived 
that  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost  in  attacking  and  disabling 
her  prey.  By  taking  the  ships  singly,  two  prizes  would 
probably  be  secured,  instead  of  one.  No  doubt  the  piratical 
commander  thought  himself  in  great  luck. 

The  Transport,  under  full  sail,  bore  down  towards  her 
new-found  friend,  whilst  the  pirate  steadily  pursued,  gaining 
on  her  uninterruptedly.  Shortly  after  four  o'clock  a  puff  of 
smoke  was  seen  to  curl  from  the  deck  of  the  pirate  ship,  and 
a  shot  came  crashing  through  the  rigging  of  the  Transport^ 
carrying  away  her  top-gallant  sail  and  colors. 

This  angered  Captain  Lucas  beyond  all  endurance,  and  he 
resolved  on  a  spirited  resistance.  The  canvas  was  removed 
from  the  port -holes,  and  the  first  mate,  who  was  an  expert 
gunner,  he  having  served  in  the  navy,  levelled  one  of  the 
Transport' s  guns  squarely  against  the  enemy.  The  aim  was 
well  taken,  for  the  ball  cut  down  the  pirate's  mizzen-mast. 
This  feat  called  forth  the  liveliest  applause  from  all  on  deck, 
and  the  American  brig  saluted  them  in  triumph.  To  Henry 
Trickey,  coming  from  a  seaport  town,  such  scenes  were 
highly  inspiriting. 

So  unexpected  and  vigorous  a  reply  from  the  Transport 
seemed  to  impress  the  pirates  strongly,  and  before  they  could 
recover  from  their  consternation  the  mate  of  the  Transport 
followed  up  his  advantage  by  firing  a  second  shot.  This 
was  a  masterly  effort.  The  ball  struck  the  pirate  hull  fairly 
on  the  water-line,  directly  under  the  foremast,  and  staved  in 
her  bow.     No  ordinary  ship  in  those  days  could  withstand 


2o6 


Two  Incidents  in  a  'Brave  Man's  Life. 


such  an  accident ;  and  it  was  apparent  at  once  that  the  pirate 
must  go  to  the  bottom.  There  was  evidently  a  panic  on 
board,  but  no  demonstration  came  from  the  piratical  crew. 
The  black  flag  still  waved — and,  yes !  another  puff  of  smoke  ! 
The  grim  old  pirate  chief,  who  had  probably  never  given 
quarter,  expected  none,  and  would  strike  a  last  blow  before 
his  ship  went  down.  But  the  aim  was  hurried  and  faulty, 
and  the  ball  flew  harmless  over  the  bowsprit  of  the  Trans- 
port. 

Captain  Lucas  at  once  ordered  two  yawl-boats  to  be 
launched  and  put  off  to  the  rescue.  This  was  an  act  of  com- 
mon humanity  on  his  part ;  but  the  pirates,  thinking  he 
wished  only  to  take  them  prisoners,  chose  rather  to  put  to  sea 
in  open  boats,  and  cried  sullenly  to  the  rescuing  party  to  be- 
gone. Two  persons  only  remained  behind  on  the  sinking 
ship,  who  cast  themselves  adrift  in  a  frail  craft  just  before 
she  went  down,  and  were  taken  up  by  the  Transport's  boats. 

The  Transport  waited  to  take  on  board  her  own  crew  and 
boats,  when  she  at  once  made  sail  in  pursuit  of  the  escaping 
pirates,  joined  in  the  chase  by  the  American  merchantman, 
which  had  hitherto  been  a  passive  spectator  of  affairs.  The 
two  pirate  shallops  spread  each  their  sails,  and  pulled  away 
in  different,  but  converging,  directions,  thinking  to  escape 
capture.  The  pirates  knew  that  capture  now,  by  either  of 
the  merchantmen,  meant  trial  and  execution  as  soon  as  the 
nearest  port  was  touched  at. 

The  captain  kindly  inquired  after  the  rescued  men,  and  it 
transpired  that  they  were  not  of  the  pirate  crew,  biit  prisoners 
among  them.  While  refusing  to  take  part  in  any  of  the  out- 
rages perpetrated  by  the  pirates,  or  to  submit  to  their  domina- 
tion, these  two  young  men  yet  consented,  on  condition  of 


lat  the  pirate 
y  a  panic  on 
ratical  crew, 
uff  of  smoke ! 
never  given 
blow  before 
[  and  faulty, 
»f  the  Trans- 

-boats  to  be 
n  act  of  corn- 
thinking  he 
to  put  to  sea 
J  party  to  be- 
1  the  sinking 
ft  just  before 
'orVs  boats. 
)wn  crew  and 
the  escaping 
lerchantman, 
affairs.  The 
pulled  away 
ng  to  escape 
,  by  either  of 
ts  soon  as  the 

1  men,  and  it 
biit  prisoners 
tiy  of  the  out- 
their  domina- 
condition  of 


Tvio  hiciiieiits  in  a  'Brave  Man's  Life. 


207 


their  lives  being  spared,  to  perform  the  ordinary  duvi^-s  of  sea- 
men, and  both  were  frequently  called  upon  to  practise  their 
trade,  the  one  as  a  carpenter,  the  other  as  a  worker  in  iron, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  Freebooter— whxch,  they  said,  was  the 
name  of  the  scuttled  ship.  They  were  always  confined  in  the 
hold  when  the  pirates  were  in  active  pursuit  of  prey,  and 
their  life  was  at  best  a  wretched  one,  but  they  were  sustained 
by  the  hope  of  eventually  making  their  escape.  When  the 
Freebooter  received  that  terrible  shot  from  the  Transport  and 
the  pirates  saw  that  she  was  doomed,  one  of  their  number 
came  to  the  hold  and  set  the  two  captives  free,  with  a  caution 
to  keep  well  out  of  the  way  till  they  could  make  sure  of  es- 
cape and  rescue. 

Of  the  two  rescued  men,  one  was  from  Cornwall,  and  his 
name  was  Trickey— Joseph  Trickey.  He  had  recognized 
Henry  at  once ;  but  it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that 
Henry  could  recognize,  in  this  careworn  and  prematurely  aged 
man,  his  lost  brother,  whom  he  was  crossing  the  ocean  ex- 
pressly to  find.  The  ship's  entire  company  shared  in  the  joy 
of  the  two  brothers  in  their  strange  re-union.  Joseph's  story 
was  a  marvelous  one,  but  it  can  be  given  only  in  outline : 
The  ship  in  which  he  sailed  for  Canada  had  been  attacked  and 
scuttled  by  these  same  pirates,  and  he  had  been  virtually  a  pris- 
oner in  their  hands  ever  since,  except  for  two  days,  he  having 
once  escaped,  only  to  be  re-captured.  His  fellow-sufferer, 
Frank  Miller,  was  an  American  who  had  fought  gallantly 
throughout  the  Revolutionary  war,  and  had  been  captured  by 
the  pirates  at  a  later  period.  Joseph  and  he  naturally  be- 
came firm  friends,  and  formed  many  plans  to  escape  from  their 
slavery  on  board  the  pirate  ship,  but  were  always  too  prudent 
to  jeopardize  their  lives  till  the  opportune  moment  should 
come  again. 


fF 


208 


Two  Inciiients  in  a  Urave  Man's  Life. 


Captain  Lucas  hotly  kept  up  the  pursuit  of  the  pirate  crew 
in  their  open  boats,  ably  seconded  by  the  American  brig. 
But  for  the  providential  destruction  of  the  Freebooter,  it 
would  have  fared  hardly  with  this  American  vessel,  as  she 
would  surely  not  have  escaped,  even  though  the  Transport 
should  have. 

The  two  pursuing  ship.s  came  within  easy  hailing  distance 
towards  evening,  when  the  American  brig  proved  to  be  the 
Commonwealt':,  of  Philadelphia,  homeward  bound,  under 
command  of  Captain  Henderson.  Not  long  thereafter  both 
the  escaping  shallops  were  overhauled  -  -  one  by  the  Trans- 
port, the  other  by  the  Commonwealth.  The  former  ship  was 
especially  fortunate  in  capturing  the  piratical  chief  himself. 
The  pirates,  to  the  very  last,  doggedly  refused  to  surrender, 
but,  overawed  by  the  Transport's  gui.s,  — for  which  they  had 
the  greatest  respect,  — were  constraiijcd  to  do  so.  They  had 
to  be  ironed  at  the  point  of  the  sword,  and  were  then  incar- 
cerated, twenty-five  in  the  hold  of  the  Transport,  and  twenty 
in  that  of  the  Commonwealth.  It  has  not  often  happened  in 
marine  chronicles  that  a  merchantman  has  so  easily  been  a:ble 
to  overpower  a  corsair,  and  take  all  her  crew  prisoners. 

The  two  vessels  now  lay  to  alongside  each  other,  and  the 
two  jubilant  captains  tosolved  to  spend  the  night  together^  on 
board  the  British  meTchautman.  The  ships'  crews  also 
mingled  freely  together,  and  the  greatest  goodfellowship  pre- 
vailed. Their  triumphant  shouts  and  songs  rose  high  above 
the  execrations  of  the  wretched  pirates. 

Piracy  being  a  capital  crime,  it  need  scarcely  be  said  that 
the  pirates,  when  delivered  up  to  justice,  met  their  deserts. 

It  has  been  said  that  Joseph  Trickey's  companion  in  serf- 
dom was  an  American.    Joseph  and  he  had  mutually  agreed, 


i.  '"<•■< 


le  pirate  crew 
iierican  brig. 
Freebooter,  it 
vessel,  as  she 
;he  Transport 

iling  distance 
)ved  to  be  the 
aound,  under 
lereafter  both 
»y  the  Trans- 
•mer  ship  was 
chief  himself, 
to  surrender, 
hich  they  had 
0.  They  had 
re  then  incar- 
■/,  and  twenty 
1  happened  in 
sily  been  a:ble 
risoners. 
ither,  and  the 
t  together^  on 
s'  crews  also 
jllowship  pre- 
se  high  above 

y  be  said  that 
jeir  deserts. 
>anion  in  serf- 
tually  agreed, 


1 


Two  IncUents  in  a  Urave  Man's  Life. 


ao9 


if  they  should  recover  their  freedom,  to  take  up  land  on  the 
Hudson  River  and  settle  down  as  farmers.  Jo.seph,  on  leav- 
ing home,  could  not  have  been  persuaded  to  settle  in  United 
States  territory  ;  but  his  friend  had  convinced  him  that  his 
prejudices  against  the  Americans  were  absurd. 

Henry  Trickey's  mission  might  now  be  said  to  be  accom- 
plished. But  he  was  easily  persuaded  by  his  brother  to  go 
with  him  and  establish  himself  on  New  York's  famous  river. 
The  entire  crew  of  the  Commomvealth  took  a  generous  inter- 
est in  the  young  man,  on  account  of  his  brother's  and  their 
countryman's  singular  history,  so  that  he  could  not  but  have 
the  most  kindly  feelings  towards  Americans. 

It  was  this  spirit  of  good-will  on  the  part  of  his  new  friends 
that  induced  Henry  to  cast  in  his  lot  with  Joseph.  Accord- 
ingly, when  the  two  ships  parted  company  in  the  morning, 
Henry  had  his  simple  trunk  transferred  to  the  Commonwealth, 
and  sailed  away  in  her  with  his  brother  and  Frank  Miller. 

Joseph  and  Henry  Trickey  and  Frank  Miller  took  ship 
from  Philadelphia  to  New  York,  and  thence  up  the  Hud- 
son River.  They  did  not  halt  till  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  old  Dutch  town  of  Schenectady,  whither  Miller's 
relatives  had  betaken  themselves  during  his  absence.  Here, 
in  the  course  of  time,  first  Henry  and  then  Joseph  married 
each  a  sister  of  Frank  Miller,  and  settled  down  tranquilly  to 
farming  in  the  beautiful  Mohawk  Valley.  As  the  years 
passed,  the  brothers  prospered  in  their  vocations,  and  sent 
for  their  father  to  come  over  and  live  with  them.  Henry 
Trickey,  senior,  came  at  their  urgent  request,  but  did  not 
live  long  thereafter,  dying  about  the  beginning  of  the  pres- 
ent century. 

Henry  Trickey,  the  younger,  removed  to  Whitehall,  near 


I*. 


ato  Two  liuUents  in  a  Tirave  Man's  Life. 

the  foot  of  Lake  Champlain,  about  this  time,  and  it  is  with 
Joseph's  fortune  that  this  history  has  now  principally  to  deal. 
The  years  came  and  went,  till  in  the  eventful  one  of  1812 
war  with  Great  Britain  broke  out.  At  that  period  Jo.seph 
Trickey  was  a  middle-aged  man,  owning  and  cultivating  a 
magnificent  projierty,  well  stocked  and  equipped,  but  hav- 
ing little  or  no  capital  besides.  He  was  not  naturally  a 
money-making  man,  and  the  large  family  growing  up  under 
his  roof  was  always  provided  for  liberally.  The  war  had 
scarcely  been  proclaimed  when  his  eldest  son,  John,  a  young 
man  of  twenty,  enlisted  under  General  Van  Rensselaer,  and 
afterwards  took  part  in  s^'veral  engaKcments. 

The  spring  of  1813  finds  our  old  hero,  Joseph  Trickey, 
entering  into  a  contract  to  supply  the  United  States  Govern- 
ment with  fifty  tons  of  hay,  to  be  delivered  at  Plattsburg,  in 
July.  This  was  a  considerable  quantity  for  him  to  under- 
take to  supply,  yet  he  felt  no  uneasiness  about  being  able  to 
fulfill  his  contract,  though  the  Government  had  of  necessity 
to  be  exact,  and  eveti  severe,  in  having  their  contracts  car- 
ried out  to  the  letter. 

Misfortune,  however,  seemed  to  follow  poor  Trickey  all 
that  spring.  He  lost  two  horses  in  the  Mohawk  ;  three  or 
four  men  that  he  had  employed  forsook  him  to  engage  in 
General  Dearborn's  attack  on  Fort  George,  and  it  was  diflS- 
cult  to  fill  their  place  ;  and,  last  of  all,  a  June  freshet  spread 
over  his  meadows,  soaking  and  spoiling  a  large  quantity  of 
his  hay.  He  made  good  this  loss  by  buying  of  his  neigh- 
bors ;  but  hay  was  scarce  and  dear,  and  all  his  profits  were 
swallowed  up  by  this  outlay. 

At  last  he  was  prepared  to  deliver  the  stipulated  quantity 
of  hay  to  the  commissariat  at  Plattsburg.     As  it  was  all  but 


SS£ 


'■anr^ 


r. 

d  it  is  with 
lally  to  deal, 
one  of  i8i3 
sriod  Joseph 
ultivating  a 
:d,  but  hav- 
naturally  a 
iig  up  under 
'he  war  had 
hn,  a  young 
isselaer,  and 

;ph  Trickey, 
ates  Govern- 
lattsburg,  in 
m  to  under- 
jeing  able  to 
of  necessity 
ontracts  car- 

Trickey  all 
(vk ;  three  or 
to  engage  in 
i  it  was  diffi- 
reshet  spread 
e  quantity  of 
of  his  neigh- 
i  profits  were 

ited  quantity 

it  was  all  but 


Two  htcUents  in  a  Brave  Man's  Life. 


311 


impossible  to  procure  teams  to  haul  the  hay,  he  conceived 
the  idea  of  floating  it  up  on  a  raft.  With  the  assi.stancc  only 
uf  his  younger  sons  he  constructed  n  large  and  buoyant  raft, 
and  transferred  to  it  twelve  tons  of  hay,  which  was  as  much 
as  he  thought  advisable  to  carry  on  a  trial  trip.  Taking 
with  them  a  small  supply  of  provisions  and  an  old  flint  mus- 
ket, he  and  one  of  his  sons  pushed  off"  the  same  day.  To 
the  boy  it  promised  to  be  a  glorious  pleasure-trip,  and  even 
the  man  experienced  a  keen  sense  of  enjoyment  as  they 
floated  slowly  away  from  their  moorings.  But  again  disas- 
ter only  awaited  him.  The  raft  proved  unwieldy,  and  a 
severe  thunder-storm  coming  uj),  he  ran  foul  of  a  sand-bar, 
and  his  entire  load  of  hay  was  washed  off"  into  the  river ; 
whilst  the  bulk  of  what  had  been  left  at  home  was  seriously 
damaged. 

Trickey  felt  this  loss  keenly.  He  would  not  only  be 
unable  to  fulfill  his  contract,  but  was  losing  time  that  should 
be  devoted  to  his  farm.  But  he  gave  way  to  no  vain  repiu- 
ings.  Again  his  brave  and  patient  spirit  as.serted  itself ;  he 
resolved  to  return  home  at  once  and  make  one  more  strenuous 
effort  to  redeem  his  pledge. 

On  reaching  home  he  scoured  the  country  far  and  near  to 
make  up  the  fifty  tons  of  hay.  He  wrote  to  the  commissariat 
at  Plattsburg  that  he  could  not  deliver  the  hay  on  the 
appointed  date,  but  that  he  would  certainly  do  so  by  the 
middle  of  the  month,  making  no  mention  whatever  of  his 
many  losses.  This  was  his  old  English  pride,  that  caused 
him  to  look  on  misfortune  as  a  disgrace. 

Trickey  had  made  a  rash  promise,  and  one  which  he  was 
unable  to  fulfill.  Undue  exertion  and  excitement  brought 
on  a  fit  of  sickness,  and  when  he  got  about  again,  on  the 


212 


Two  Incidents  in  a  Brave  Man's  Life. 


20th  of  July,  all  the  marketable  hay  he  could  muster  was 
thirty  tons. 

Two  days  later  he  was  placed  under  arrest,  by  order  from 
Plattsburg,  for  breach  of  contract.  The  hay  was  seized  and 
taken  away,  while  he,  after  an  informal  trial,  was  lodged  in 
the  Schenectady  County  jail. 

This  was  a  severe  measure  ;  but  as  viewed  by  the  military 
authorities,  who  did  not  enquire  into  the  circumstances,  it 
was  justifiable.  It  was  known  that  Trickey  was  a  native 
Englishman,  and  unkind  doubts  were  entertained  of  his 
loyalty  to  the  United  States  Government,  now  that  they  were 
at  war  with  Great  Britain.  The  irascible  officials  did  not 
know  that  he  had  had  to  contend  with  grievous  and  unlooked- 
for  difficulties,  nor  consider  that  his  son  was  bravely  fighting 
the  country's  battles. 

The  jail  in  which  the  unfortunate  man  was  confined  was 
a  primitive  structure,  rudely  built  of  unhewn  logs,  and  dating 
back  to  the  seventeenth  century.  Trickey  saw  at  once  that 
he  could  easily  make  his  escape  from  it,  and  he  resolved  to 
do  so,  trusting  to  Executive  clemency  for  a  full  and  free 
pardon.  He  bore  his  persecutors  no  malice,  knowing  that 
his  case  was  misunderstood ;  but  he  wished  to  get  back 
to  his  farming  interests,  and  not  remain  a  prisoner  till 
his  incarcerators  should  see  fit  to  liberate  him.  Perhaps 
this  was  not  logical  reasoning,  nor  yet  good  policy  ;  Trickey 
was  rather  a  man  of  action  than  of  reflection.  It  is  certain 
that  he  accounted  it  no  crime  to  effect  his  escape,  in  this 
instance,  from  jail.  Brought  up  a  carpenter,  he  had  practiced 
his  trade  in  his  own  interests  ever  since  settling  down  to 
farm  life,  and  was  seldom  without  a  few  simple  tools  about 
his  person.    The  tools  required  for  his  purpose  were  an  auger 


I  muster  was 

)y  order  from 
'as  seized  and 
vas  lodged  in 

y  the  military 
lumstances,  it 
was  a  native 
tained  of  his 
hat  they  were 
cials  did  not 
md  unlooKed- 
ively  fighting 

confined  was 
gs,  and  dating 
1^  at  once  that 
lie  resolved  to 
,  full  and  free 
knowing  that 
I  to  get  back 
prisoner  till 
lim.  Perhaps 
licy  ;  Trickey 
It  is  certain 
:scape,  in  this 
:  had  practiced 
ttling  down  to 
le  tools  about 
were'  an  auger 


Two  Incidents  in  a  Brave  Man's  Life. 


215 


and  a  strong  knife,  and  these  and  some  others  he  now  hap- 
pened to  have  in  his  pockets.  He  had  not  been  subjected 
to  the  indignity  of  being  searched. 

There  was  a  barred  window,  none  too  secure,  but  it  was 
above  his  reach,  and  he  contemplated  no  attack  on  it. 
The  walls  were  but  wooden  walls,  —  of  logs  a  foot  thick, 
certainly,  —and  beyond  them  was  liberty  !  His  jailer  visited 
him  but  three  times  a  day,  to  bring  a  scanty  meal,  and  the 
time  of  his  rounds  was  carefully  noted.  On  sounding  the 
wall  of  bare  logs,  Trickey  found  a  spot  that  would  suit  his 
purpose  admirably.  His  first  move  was  to  wrench  a  spike 
out  of  the  floor,  and  thrust  it  into  the  wall,  just  adove  the 
spot  thus  chosen.    On  this  spike  he  wished  to  hang  his  coat. 

When  the  jailer  came  in  the  next  time,  Trickey  took  his 
coat  off  this  spike  and  sat  down  on  it  to  partake  of  his  frugal 
meal.  At  the  time  of  the  next  visit  the  coat  was  hanging 
on  the  spike,  and  this  time  was  not  removed.  At  the  third 
rcund,  Trickey  had  his  coat  on,  the  air  being  rather  chilly. 
The  spike  and  the  coat  looked  innocent  enough,  and  the 
jailer  paid  no  attention  to  them.  But  every  time  thereafter 
that  he  made  his  rounds  the  coat  hung  on  its  spike,  and  was 
never  again  taken  off. 

The  captive  had  a  stout  inch  auger  with  him,  as  before 
mentioned,  but  no  handle  for  it.  But  with  his  clasp-knife 
he  ingeniously  fashioned  a  handle  from  a  splinter  cut  out  of 
the  wall,  in  the  spot  indicated  as  covered  by  his  coat.  He 
then  proceeded  laboriously  to  bore  holes  in  this  spot,  with  the 
object  of  removing  a  square  block  of  wood,  large  enough  for 
him  to  crawl  through.  This  was  a  very  slow  and.  wearisome 
piece  of  work,  but  Trickey  persevered  in  it  manfully.  How 
to  dispose  of  the  borings  was  a  difficult  problem,  and  at  first 


f 


214  Two  Incidents  in  a  Brave  Man's  Life. 

he  stowed  them  away  in  his  pockets.  Careful  search,  how- 
ever, disclose!  a  cavity  in  the  floor,  where  not  only  the  bor- 
ings but  other  fragments  from  the  hole  being  made  in  the  wall 
could  safely  be  secreted. 

After  three  days'  labor  with  auger  and  knife  the  task  was 
completed.  Trickey  had  carefully  measured  his  size  at  the 
shoulders,  and  a  square  of  wood  could  now  be  taken  out  of 
the  wall,  leaving  an  opening  large  enough  to  admit  the  passage 
of  his  body.  Hanging  his  coat  on  its  spike  again,  and  care- 
fully spreading  it  out  as  usual,  so  as  entirely  to  cover  the 
auger  holes,  he  waited,  with  the  same  calm  patience  that  he 
had  exercised  all  his  life,  for  the  night  to  come.  Then  he 
removed  the  block  of  wood,  squeezed  through  the  opening, 
and  quietly  made  his  way  home.  Once  safe  at  home,  he  did 
not  fear  re-arrest,  though  apprehensive  of  harsh  treatment  if 
detected  in  jail-breaking. 

He  was  right  in  his  conviction  that  no  further  attempt 
would  be  made  to  molest  him.  Several  influential  men  in 
his  district  took  up  his  case  at  once,  and  sent  a  memorial  of 
the  affair  to  General  Dearborn  and  to  President  Madison. 
The  result  was  that  Trickey  was  pardoned  for  his  successful 
attempt  at  jail-breaking,  and  released  from  his  contract. 
Further,  he  received  a  check  paying  him  in  full  for  the  fifty 
tons  of  hay. 

Joseph  Trickey  prospered  greatly  after  the  war,  and  when 
he  died,  in  1835,  he  was  universally  regarded  as  a  hero  and  a 
patriot.  The  patience  and  fortitude  he  had  shown  under 
suffering,  oppression,  and  disaster  were  virtues  which  he  was 
often  called  upon  to  exercise,  and  which  distinguished  him 
all  his  life.  His  descendants  to-day  are  respected  and  pros- 
perous men,  settled  in  almost  every  State  in  the  Union.     His 


e. 

search,  how- 
Mily  the  hor- 
de in  the  wall 

the  task  was 
iS  size  at  the 
taken  out  of 
it  the  passage 
tin,  and  care- 
to  cover  the 
ience  that  he 
e.  Then  he 
the  opening, 
home,  he  did 
1  treatment  if 

•ther  attempt 
ential  men  in 
t  memorial  of 
ent  Madison, 
his  successful 
his  contract. 
[1  for  the  fifty 

ar,  and  when 
\  a.  hero  and  a 
shown  under 
which  he  was 
iguished  him 
ted  and  pros- 
Union.     His 


Two  Incidents  in  a  Brave  Man's  Life. 


215 


son  John  proved  himself  a  hero  in  the  War  of  18 12-15,  ^^^ 
serx'ed  again  in  the  Mexican  War. 

Such  is  the  true  history  of  a  sturdy  pioneer,  who  quietly 
lived  an  eventful  life  of  hardship  in  the  long  ago.  * 


*  The  style  of  this  "  history  "  seems  ponderous  in  the  extreme.  It  was 
written  as  a  prize  story  for  a  very  worthy  publication  — which  accounts 
for  it  all.—  B.  w.  M. 


2l6 


t/liwity  iAloiie,  Etc. 


ALWAY  ALONE. 

Alone,  ))e>ieath  the  iiiurniuring  pines, 
Alone,  upon  tlie  troubled  sea  ; 
When  midnight  storuis  sweep  o'er  the  len. 
Or  when  the  sun  refulgent  shines; 

With  gayest  friends,  or  sullen  foe, 

Alone,  alone  ;  alway  alone  ! 

In  banquet  halls,  where  wine  and  song 

Hold  carnival,  and  all  the  earth 

Seems  but  to  minister  to  mirth. 

The  hours  are  weary,  sad,  and  long. 

Through  life  as  some  ill  dream  I  go, 
Alone,  alone,  since  she  is  gone  ! 


WHAT  AUGUSTUS  WROTE  IN  LUCY'S  ALBUM. 


You  ask  me  for  a  paltry  rhyme 

In  the  same  free  and  cheerful  way 

As  asks  a  beggar  for  a  rlime  — 

But  surely  I'll  not  say  you  nay. 

I  on  my  part  will  be  more  l)old. 

Will  ask  for  more  transcendent  bliss, 

Will  for  my  rhymes  ask  more  than  gold, 
For  in  return  I  ask  a  kiss! 

Quick  as  a  flash  Lucy  wrote  beneath  it :  — 

Not  having  asked  you  for  a  rhyme 

I  hope  you'll  think  it  not  amiss 
If  I  give  you  a  beggar's  dime 

Instead  of  giving  you  a  kiss ! 

But  Augustus  goX  \\i*  ki<i<<,  all  the  raine;  and  Lucy  got  more  than  ten  cent*' 
worth  of  caramels. 


■..>i„ . 


Another  Album  yerse. 


217 


lea. 


ANOTHER  ALBUM  VERSE. 


KO. 


What  though  I  may  praise  other  luaids 

Than  her  whom  I  love  above  all, 
What  though  my  pen  almost  persuades 

That  I'm  at  the  beck  and  the  call 
Of  ev'ry  bright  eye  that  may  chance 

'i'o  greet  me  with  smile  ot  with  frown, 
Made  captive  by  each  beauty's  glance, 

And  slave  to  each  belle  in  the  town  — 
My  heart  is  to  one  true  as  steel, 
No  passion  besides  can  I  feel. 


S  ALBUM. 


What  though  other  songs'  I  may  sing 

Than  those  that  my  sweetheart  has  sung, 
Give  proof  that  I  e'er  gave  a  ring, 

Or  proof  that  I  gave  e'en  a  tongue 
To  words  of  a  love  never  felt, 

Or  courted  another  than  you. 
To  whom  many  suitors  have  knelt. 

While  I,  of  them  all,  you  make  blue. 
Deft  verse  they  can  airly  spin, 
Your  heart,  dearest  one,  /  wo«ild  win. 


But  after  Augustus  had  written  this  in  the  young  lady's  album,  she  sealed  up 
the  leaf  with  a  choice  and  warranted  mucilage 


ore  than  ten  cents' 


2I8 


IVben  Roses  Blush  OAv  Love  Will  Sail. 


WHEN  ROSES  BLUSH  MY  LOVE  WILL  SAIL. 

When  roses  bllish  my  love  will  sail 

O'er  waters  wide  unto  iny  side  ; 
And  some  fair  morn,  in  snowy  veil, 

Her  tears  all  dried,  she'll  be  my  bride. 

My  love  will  come  when  roses  bloom ; 

O'er  billows  ride,  through  calm  seas  glide ; 
Through  star-lit  nights,  through  days  of  gloom, 

By  dangers  tried,  will  onward  stride. 

Oh,  may  her  sails  have  kindly  gales, 
May  tempests  hide,  may  all  be  dyed 

In  gold  at  eve,  when  sunshine  fails; 
Be  ocean's  pride  for  her  untried. 

vShe  sails  in  June,  when  skies  are  fair; 

I  must  confide  all  will  betide 
To  waft  her  s:ifc  unto  my  care. 

Her  ship  espied,  all  storms  defied, 

I'll  signal  as  she  passeth  near. 

Here  I  abide,  where  rolls  the  tide 
Each  day  and  night,  where  1  may  hear, 

Or  terrified,  or  lullabyed. 

I  fear  the  sea,  I  love  the  sea ; 

Loud  hath  it  cried,  sweet  chants  supplied ; 
Its  majesty,  its  mystery, 

I've  deified,  and  ne'er  denied. 

'Tis  far  from  June,  and  like  a  snail 

The  slow  hours  slide,  my  haste  deride ; 

When  will  a  missive  bring  the  tale 

My  love  hath  hied  to  be  my  bride? 

The  sea's  now  wroth,  but  fair  days  loom ;  • 
Storms  will  subside,  winds  will  have  died. 

And  white  will  be  old  ocean's  spume 
When  on  its  tide  my  love  shall  ride. 


HL---_ 


*)IPV 


O^y  Love  Hath  Come  When  Roses  Blush.         219 
MY  LOVE  HATH  COME  WHEN  ROSES  BLUSH. 

Ah,  June !  sweet  June,  I  welcome  thee. 

Whose  roses  fair  perfume  the  air; 
For  one  hath  sailed  across  the  sea 

My  name  to  bear,  my  home  to  share. 

My  love  hath  come  when  roses  blush, 

When  all  is  fair  beyond  compare ; 
And  ere  this  eve  the  song-birds  hush 

A  bridal  pair  their  vows  will  swear. 

'Tis  morning  yet,  I  scarce  can  wait 

The  noon-day  glare,  the  church  bells'  blare ; 

I  scarce  can  wait  the  hour  when  fate 
Gives  to  my  care  a  bride  so  rare. 

The  old  church  bells  will  sweet  peal  out, 
From  cobwebbeA  lair  high  up  the  stair, 

A  welcome  loud,  a  nuptial  shout. 
Until  the  air  my  joy  shall  share. 


God  bless  the  bride  who  sailed  the  main. 
Should  be  ray  prayer  this  morn  so  fair ; 

But  soon  the  dial's  face  again 

I  note  with  care.    An  hour  to  spare ! 

A  rose  I  '11  pluck  for  my  fair  bride ; 

Her  sunny  hair,  that  did  ensnare 
My  boyish  heart,  by  love  untried. 

If  I  place  there,  she  fond  will  wear. 

My  love  shall  wear  a  pure  white  rose, 
(Herself  more  fair,  though  unaware) 

For  now  'tis  June  my  garden  shows 
Buds  everywhere,  no  bushes  bare. 

I  tiow  may  go,  the  hours  have  flown ; 

But  ask  if  ere  so  debonair 
A  wife  were  wed,  a  bride  were  known  ? 

Oh,  may  she  ue'er  one  harsh  word  bear ! 


n 


320 


Hiini  Luck. 


HARD  LUCK. 

SHE  and  her  cousin  Molly  were  up-stairs,  setting  forward 
the  buttons  on  a  pair  of  new  shoes,  when  she  heard  a 
smart,  imperative  knock  on  the  hall  door.  She  thought  it 
might  be  Joe,  although  he  didn't  usually  knock  exactly  in 
that  way,  and  she  ran  down-stairs  to  open  the  door  herself. 

No,  it  wasn't  Joe,  at  all ;  but  a  stalwart  individual  with 
yellow  hair  and  yellow  teeth,  clinging  for  dear  life  to  a  battered 
gripsack.  He  was  an  itinerant  peddler,  and  she  knew  it  be- 
fore he  had  time  to  ask  if  she  wanted  to  look  at  some  good 
jewelry. 

She  surmised  that  he  hadn't  wrestled  with  the  wojrld  long 
enough  to  have  had  much  experience  of  its  ways,  so  she  de- 
termined not  to  shut  the  door  haughtily  in  his  face,  but  to 
give  him  a  little  bit  of  experience  to  ruminate  on  and  profit 
by. 

In  answer  to  his  half-formed  inquiry  she  said,  "  Oh,  yes  ; 
certainly  I  shall ;  please  walk  right  in."  Then  she  called 
up  to  her  cousin  Molly,  who  was  the  most  outrageously  mis- 
chievous girl  in  her  native  town,  and  always  ready  for  a 
spree: 

"  Molly,  can  you  come  down  a  minute,  please  ?  Here's  a 
gentleman  with  a  beautiful  assortment  of  jewelry." 

Molly  rushed  down-stairs,  without  even  stopping  to  look 
in  the  glass,  and  smiled  radiantly  on  the  smirking  peddler, 
who  hud  struck  an  awkward  and  unresttul  attitude. 


Hard  Luch. 


ii\ 


setting  forward 
m  she  heard  a 
She  thought  it 
lock  exactly  in 
J  door  herself. 
Individual  with 
jfe  to  a  battered 
she  knew  it  be- 
k  at  some  good 

the  wojrld  long 
vays,  so  she  de- 
his  face,  but  to 
te  on  and  profit 

lid,  "  Oh,  yes  ; 
*hen  she  called 
itrageously  mis- 
lys  ready  for  a 

sase  ?    Here's  a 

elry." 

topping  to  look 

lirking  peddler, 

ttitude. 


With  a  gracious  bow  he  plumped  his  treasure-case  down 
on  a  newly-varnished  stand  in  the  hallway,  flung  it  open  and 
began  to  haul  out  gorgeous-looking  jewelry. 

"  Oh  !  Oh  !  How  much  is  that  ? "  as  he  lingeringly  drew 
a  heavy  yellow  chain  out  of  his  gripsack. 

"  This  is  a  superline  article,"  he  began,  "  and  exceedingly 

val— ." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  we  know  all  about  that;"  said  the  young  lady 
of  the  house,  who  had  admitted  him;  "but  what  is  the 
price?" 

"Well,  it's  worth  twenty-five  dollars,  every  day  in  the 
week,  but  seeing  it's  you,  young  lady,  I'd  let  it  go  at  a 
sacrifice." 

"You  would  !     Well,  how  much  ? " 

"Say  twen  —  eighteen  dollars.  " 

"Oh,  but  I'm  just  awfully  sorry  we  can't  take  it,"  Molly 
.said,  and  sighed. 

"vSay  fifteen." 

"Too  much." 

"See  here  !     Seeing  it's  you,  say  twelve." 

"  I'm  afraid  not ;  not  to-day." 

"Say  ten-fifty." 

The  youHK  ladies  seemed  to  be  making  up  their  mind  to 
accept  this  liberal  offer,  but  still  hesitated. 

' '  Say  eight  dollars  ;  —  six  -  twenty  -  five  ;  —  four  -  seventy  - 
five  ;  —  three  -  fifty  ;  —  two  -  seventy  -  five. "  ' 

This  was  too  much  for  the  young  lady  who  had  opened  the 
door,  and  she  expressed  hearty  laughter. 

"See  here,  madam,"  he  said,  yanking  out  a  whopping  big 
locket,  "see  here,  how  much  do  you  suppose  that's  worth  ? 
One  hundred  dollars  !  One  hmidred  dollars,  every  day  in  the 
week  ! ' ' 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  so  !  "  cried  Molly.     "  But  I  sup- 


■;>( 


222 


Hani  Luck. 


pose  you'd  sell  it  for  ten  cents,  any  day  in  the  week,  and 
throw  in  a  stick  of  gum." 

The  peddler  was  beginning  to  get  uneasy.  But  he  recovered 
himself  and  drew  out  another  locket,  that  was  unparalleled 
in  its  gorgeousness,  and  whispered  hoarsely  :  ' '  There,  madam, 
how  much  do  you  take  that  to  be  worth  ?  I  gave  fifty  dollars 
for  that,  in  hard  cash  —  fitly  dollars  !  " 

"  And  I  dare  say  you  would  sell  it  for  fifty  cents  in  cash, 
and  a  piece  of  apple  pie  '  in  kind,'  "  said  Molly. 

"Some  folks  don't  know  diamonds  from  button  rings," 
the  peddler  remarked,  with  fiendish  sarcasm  ;  and  he  crowded 
his  valuables  promiscuously  into  his  valise,  and  started  to  go. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  in  such  a  hurry.  We  haven't  seen  your 
diamonds  yet,"  said  Molly.     "Are  they  invaluable,  too?" 

"  No,  nor  your  button  rings,"  said  the  young  lady  of  the 
house.     "  I  presume  you  carry  a  large  and  varied  stock." 

"  My  diamonds  are  worth  a  hanged  sight  more  money 
than  jfottr  circumstances  would  represent  —  represent  — 
represent  — . ' ' 

On  this  innocent  word  he  got  muddled ;  and  he  bolted  out 
of  the  door  w.chout  stopping  to  explain  himself  definitely. 

As  he  passed  through  the  gate,  a  few  feet  in  front  of  the 
house,  something  happened  to  him.  The  gate  was  a  miracu- 
lously ingenious  one,  and  it  required  careful  study  to  be  able 
to  manipulate  it  successfully.  The  unfortunate  who  did  not 
understand  it  could  scarcely  open  it  or  shut  it  without  jam- 
ming his  fingers.  It  played  no  tricks  upon  the  members  of  the 
household,  but  it  would  nip  the  sad-eyed  Rhode  Island  tramp 
with  remorseless  and  unfailing  regularity. 

Now,  our  hero,  the  peddler,  had  worked  himself  up  into 
such  a  state  of  mental  excitement,  on  account  of  losing  five 
minutes  of  his  valuable  time,  and  not  making  even  a  cent, 
that  a  scene  of  violence  ensued  on  his  essaying  that  gate. 


lie  week,  and 

t  he  recovered 

unparalleled 

here,  madam, 

/e  fifty  dollars 

ents  in  cash, 

utton  rings," 
id  he  crowded 
started  to  go. 
I't  seen  your 
luable,  too?" 
g  lady  of  the 
led  stock." 
more  money 
-  represent  — 


Hard  Luck. 


aa3 


In  fact,  he  jammed  three  of  his  fingers,  as  they  had  never 
been  jammed  before  since  his  eleventh  year. 

His  thoughts  drifted  back  to  a  black  day  in  his  childhood, 
when  his  father  caned  those  self-same  fingers  because  he  had 
tried  hard  to  make  a  canal-boat  out  of  a  new  forty -cent  sti«w 
hat.  His  eyes  shot  fire,  then  filled  with  scalding  tears  ;  and 
he  articulated,  loud  enough  to  be  heard  around  the  corner  : 

"Jam  ad  lunas  !  "  he  said.  "Jam  cachinnatio  interfec- 
torum  rabiosarum  gutturibus  damnetur  !  " 

Or  it  sounded  like  that,  anyway. 

The  peddler  was  arrested  for  using  profane  language  on  the 
street.  On  the  Sunday  following  the  young  ladies  put  each  a 
bill  on  the  contribution-plate,  and  so  performed  all  the  duties 
that  could  reasonably  be  expected  of  them. 

"So  runs  the  merry  world  away." 


he  bolted  out 
elf  definitely, 
front  of  the 
was  a  miracu- 
idy  to  be  able 
e  who  did  not 
without  jam- 
lembers  of  the 
\  Island  tramp 


^^^-m^^^^ 


uself  up  into 
af  losing  five 
even  a  cent, 
ig  that  gate. 


rff? 


324 


7/v  Ton-Giife. 


THE  TOIJ.-OATlv 

An  old  toll-gate  stooil  Ioiik  on  a  highway 

That  was  rrequented  much,  day  and  night ; 

From  afar  it  was  seen  in  the  day-time, 
After  dusk  a  low,  Boft-colore<1  light 

Made  it  known,  and  alas  for  the  jester 

If  he  thought,  day  or  night,  he  could  pester 
The  alert,  honest  keeper  by  trying 
To  blip  through  without  paying  the  charges  ! 

'Twas  a  place  where  the  teamsters  long  halted 
With  their  thirsty  and  slow-moving  teams, 

For  a  well  of  the  purest  spring  water 

Was  at  hand,  and  they  talked  over  schemes 

(While  their  horses  were  resting  and  drinking) 

Of  the  tariff  and  what  they  were  thinking 
Of  the  local  election,  and  whether 
Mr.  Pow-wow  could  carry  the  voters. 

For  the  gate-keeper  had  strong  opinions 

On  political  matters,  and  spoke 
Out  his  aiind,  iu  bis  wide-open  doorway, 

In  the  teeth  of  the  worst  wind  that  broke 
From  the  north  and  came  cruelly  sweeping 
Through  the  gate ;  and  while  others  were  sleeping 

He  was  reading  the  one  daily  paper 

That  was  taken  within  three  miles  'round  him. 


The  Toll-Gafe. 


»»$ 


He  woiilil  treat  you,  with  hearty  goo<l-iiature, 

To  a  k1"**  °^  hi*  <>^"  KiiiKer-t)eer, 
While  he  wondered  why  Wartrick,  the  hunter, 

Witli  hia  doK  Hill  killed  never  a  deer ! 
Then  he'd  tell  yon  what  Sol  Moon  waa  HowiuK, 
Or  aly  poat  you  which  yoinig  man  waa  going 

With  each  ueiKhhor's  Tair  daughter,  and  whether 

Murdy  Hones  conlil  anbnl  to  get  married. 

He  could  tell  just  what  harley  wan  bringing, 
And  what  Thad  Hambly  got  for  hia  beans; 

Knew  the  wheat  Knd  I)o<1dB  raised  to  the  acre. 
And  which  man  wan  outliving  his  means. 

He  was  weather-wise,  too,  and  told  whether 

The  school  picnic  would  have  pleasant  weather ; 
And  he  had  practised  skill  in  compounding 
Remedies  that  for  coughs  were  unequalled. 

Then  he  knew,  at  a  quarter-mile  distance. 

Every  farmer  that  passed  through  the  gate, 

All  the  horses  in  Newcastle  County, 

While  his  gossip  ran  on,  at  this  rate : 

"Here  comes  Billy  Jerome,  but  he's  driving 

Wesley  Werry's  bay  mare,  who  was  hiving 
Bunny  Cornish's  bees  in  the  wood-shed 
All  day  Sunday,  until  he  got  sun-struck." 

Or  on  seeing  a  full-atomached  neighbor 

Round  the  corner  on  foot,  he  would  say, 

"Johnny  Bellows  would  drive  were  he  going 
To  the  village,  so  likely  to-day 

Mr.  Hickey,  the  blacksmith,  he'll  worry. 

And  I  know  he  is  now  in  a  hurry  ; 

But  that  hurry  will  not  trouble  Johnny 
Till  he  finds  how  to  temper  his  augurs." 


On  the  weather,  the  roads,  womei's  fashions, 
He  waxed  earnest  and  long  would  enlarge 


»%»■■-  i, 


i 


226  7he  Toll-Gate. 

In  a  jocular  confabulation. 

With  the  man  who  disputed  a  charge 

He  would  argue  and  gibing  words  bandy  ; 

But  would  bring  out  a  long  stick  of  candy 
For  a  lame  boy,  who  every  fine  Sunday 
With  his  grandfather  passed  through  the  toll-gate. 

As  a  landmark  the  old  country  toll-gate 
Is  no  more,  but  as  neighbors  pass  by 

They  commune  on  its  kindly  old  keeper 

And  his  well,  that  no  hot  spell  could  dry. 

Then  his  teamster  friends  miss  him  most  sadly  ; 

While  the  robins  he  often  ted  gladly 
In  his  trim  little  garden,  securely 
Out  of  reach  of  his  cat,  have  all  vanished. 


t 


toll-gate. 


How  a  Coolness  Arose  Between  Bill  and  Nero.      227 


I-, 
iiy; 


d. 


HOW    A    COOLNESS    AROSE    BETWEEN 
BILL  AND  NERO  * 

THE  dog  Nero  was  destined  to  figure  somewhat  conspic- 
uously in  the  family  history,  and  it  may  be  well  to 
turn  aside  from  these  monotonous  scenes  and  narrate  a  re- 
freshing incident  in  his  career.  •  Nero  had  now  reached  the 
indiscreet  and  aggressive  age  of  fifteen  months,  and  one 
bright  June  day  he  went  down  to  the  "Corners"  to  pay  his 
respects  to  the  old  people  and  to  bark,  in  his  genial  but 
authoritative  manner,  at  such  teams  as  did  not  habitually 
pass  his  own  domains.  In  this  way  he  soon  established  a 
reputation  for  himself  at  both  comers. 

Nero  vaulted  over  the  east  gate  in  his  usual  breezy  style, 
and  stalked  straight  into  the  kitchen.  It  was  getting  well 
on  to  dinner-time,  and  he  expected,  no  doubt,  to  find  both 
his  kind  old  friends  in  the  house.  But  the  old  clock  wanted 
three  minutes  of  striking  twelve,  so  it  was  a  little  too  early 
for  that,  though  most  of  the  dinner  was  indeed  smoking  on 
the  table. 


*  Taken  from  the  MS.  of  my  book, 
Lawsuit." — b.  w.  m. 


'Thb  Great  Ten-Dou.ar 


. 


238 


Hyw  a  Coolness  Arose 


Great  Caesar's  ghost!  What  was  this?  There,  on  the 
"settee,"  lay  a  hulking  yellow  dog,  as  big  as  himself,  fast 
asleep,  but  with  that  air  of  easy  content  that  a  dog  soon 
manifests  where  it  is  made  one  of  the  family.  This  was 
Bill,  of  course,  whose  tragic  history  was  briefly  outlined  in  a 
preceding  chapter. 

Neither  human  nature  nor  canine  nature  can  tolerate  an 
interloper,  and  Nero  was  always  an  outrageously  jealous 
dog.  This  was  the  first  he  had  seen  of  Bill,  and  he  deter- 
mined it  should  be  the  last.  With  a  snoit  of  rage  he  made 
a  lunge  at  the  sleeping  hound  and  dragged  him  sprawling 
off  the  "settee." 

Bill  was  now  thoroughly  awake,  and  looking  upon  Nero 
as  an  intruder,  a  desperado,  and  a  maniac,  the  struggle  be- 
gan in  earnest.  It  was  not  simply  a  fight  for  supremacy  ;  it 
was  a  fight  to  the  death.  The  space  between  the  "settee" 
and  the  stove  was  too  cramped,  so,  backing  out  ii  to  the 
arena  between  table  and  stove,  the  battle  was  begun  all  over 
again.     Oh,  how  stubbornly  they  fought ! 

The  pantry  door  promptly  slammed  to,  and  terrified  cries 
of  "Joseph!  Joseph!"  smote  upon  the  air.  These  cries 
could  not  penetrate  to  the  shop,  but  both  dogs  recognized 
what  they  meant,  and  redoubled  their  exertions.  Bill,  of 
course,  being  an  older  dog,  had  the  science  of  fighting  per- 
fectly mastered  ;  but  Nero  had  carried  some  hard- won  fields, 
and  always  fought  with  the  impetuosity  of  vigorous  youth. 
It  was  hard  to  say  which  one  would  annihilate  the  other. 
Suddenly  a  leg  of  the  table  was  snapped  off,  and  the  steam- 
ing dinner  was  scattered  promiscuously  over  the  floor.  With 
frightful  yells  (for  Bill  was  scalded  and  Nero  was  burnt)  the 
combat  slackened  a  moment,  only  to  be  renewed  the  more 
determinedly.     There  were  many  dainties  under  their  feet 


h 


lere,  on  the 

liimself,   fast 

a  dog  soon 

This  was 

outlined  in  a 

n  tolerate  an 
lusly  jealous 
md  he  deter- 
ige  he  made 
m  sprawling 

g  upon  Nero 
struggle  be- 
ipreniacy  ;  it 
he  "settee" 
out  itto  the 
!gun  all  over 

terrified  cries 
These  cries 
s  recognized 
>ns.  Bill,  of 
fighting  per- 
rd-won  fields, 
orous  youth, 
te  the  other, 
id  the  steam- 
:  floor.  With 
IS  burnt)  the 
:ed  the  more 
der  their  feet 


1 


h 


Between  Bill  and  Nero. 


239 


that  at  another  time  would  have  been  swallowed,  scalding 
hot ;  but  this  wrs  no  time  to  think  of  dainties.  Bill  was 
after  Nero's  scalp,  and  Nero  was  after  Bill's  whole  hide. 

Not  even  the  dinner-bell  could  be  found  in  the  pantry,  so 
making  a  detour  through  the  cellar,  a  scared,  trembling  figure 
appeared  in  the  shop,  almost  speechless. 

"  Why,  Jane,  what's  the  matter?  " 

'*  Oh.  Joseph  !  Those  dog.s  ! "  was  the  only  answer. 

Dropping  his  hammer  and  calling  upon  Jim  Paget,  who  was 
balancing  himself,  as  usual,  on  the  rickety  stool,  a  run  was 
made  to  the  house. 

At  this  juncture  Bill  had  his  mouth  full  of  Nero's  neck, 
and  Nero  was  growling  hideously  ;  while  Bill's  feet,  cut  by 
the  broken  glass,  were  streaming  with  his  patrician  blood. 
Bill  seemed  to  be  getting  the  best  of  it,  and  Nero  was  ready 
to  welcome  outside  interference.  Not  naturally  a  fighter. 
Bill  was  easily  persuaded  by  hiS  kind  protector  to  loose  his 
hold. 

'This  here  sport."  drawled  Paget,"  would  be  perhibited 
in  the  city  ;  but  they  hain't  hurt  each  other  any,  an'  it's  the 
natur'  of  the  animile  fur  to  fight," 

"  But  look  at  our  dinner  ! " 

Seeing  his  second  opportunity,  Nero  made  a  sudden  and 
vigorous  assault  upon  Bill,  took  him  again  at  a  disadvantage, 
and  seemed  prepared  to  fight  it  out,  if  it  took  all  the  after- 
noon. 

"Now,  look  at  that!"  said  Paget.  "The  little  black 
feller's  got  fight  enough  into  him  fur  a  hull  rig>ment,  as  the 

sayin' is.     Ef  I  was  a-goin' ." 

"Just  like  you  men!"  called  out  an  exasperated  female 
voice  from  the  "west  room."  "Why  couldn't  you  have 
locked  up  the  dogs,  when  you  got  them  separated?" 


1 


230 


How  a  Coolness  Arose 


Nero  had  the  advantage  this  time,  and  was  not  so  easily 
induced  to  let  it  slip.  Paget,  thinking  it  was  now  his  turn 
to  interfere,  undertook  to  separate  them  ;  but  his  visible  nerv- 
ousness only  encouraged  the  combatants. 

' '  Bill  is  afraid  of  cold  water,  and  Nero  of  a  gun  ! '  * 

It  was  a  w^oman's  suggestion,  but  both  men  hastened  to  act 
on  it.  Paget  dashed  off  to  the  shop  for  the  firearm,  while 
his  host  quietly  took  up  a  pail  of  water  and  deliberately 
poured  it  over  the  dogs,  thoroughly  drenching  both.  But 
neither  the  drenching  nor  the  formidable-looking  blunder- 
buss brought  in  by  Jim  Paget  had  any  effect  on  the  enraged 
creatures. 

"Joseph,  shall  I  shoot  into  them?"  asked  Paget  excit- 
edly. 

"It  isn't  a  shooting  gun  that  you  brought,"  was  the  calm 
answer.     "  No,  it  isn't  necessary  to  hurt  the  poor  dogs." 

Then,  with  his  deliberate  habitual  coolness,  he  stepped 
between  the  two  brutes,  grasped  either  firmly  by  the  neck, 
and  forcibly  drew  them  apart. 

"Now,  then,"  he  said  to  the  astonished  Paget,  "take 
Bill  (he  is  the  quietest),  and  shut  him  up  under  the  shop, 
and  I'll  put  Nero  in  the  shop.  After  dinner  we' 11  tuni  Nero 
loose,  and  he'll  go  home." 

So  the  two  dogs.  Bill  snarling  and  Nero  growling,  and 
each  one,  no  doubt,  claiming  the  championship,  were  led 
away  to  their  respective  places  of  confinement. 

"They  hain't  hurt  each  other,  but  you'll  never  make 
them  friendly  together  as  long  as  they  live,"  said  Paget, 
coming  back  into  the  house  and  crashing  into  a  dish  of  cur- 
rant jam,  that  had  escaped  unhurt,  though  it  was,  of  course, 
no  longer  eatable.  "  Well,  I  never  did  see,"  he  continued, 
half-apologetically,  "  sech  a  ruin  of  a  dinner.    Joseph,  ef  it 


L 


Between  Bill  ami  Nero. 


231 


lot  so  easily 
low  his  turn 
irisible  nerv- 

1!" 

tened  to  act 
earm,  while 
deliberately 
both.  But 
ig  blunder- 
the  enraged 

Paget  excit- 

ras  the  calm 
or  dogs. ' ' 
he  stepped 
y  the  neck, 

iget,  "take 
er  the  shop, 
1  turn  Nero 

owling,  and 
p,  were  led 

lever  make 
said  Paget, 
dish  of  cur- 
5,  of  course, 
:  continued, 
foseph,  ef  it 


hadn't  been  fur  me,  them  dogs  would  'a'  upset  the  stove  an' 
burnt  your  house  up." 

"  If  they  had  been  of  heavier  build  they  might  have," 
without  the  suspicion  of  a  smile.  "  But  what  a  terrible 
shame  to  put  Jane  to  so.  much  trouble." 

"  Yes  ;  an'  what  a  terryble  shame  to  spile  sech  a  napertiz- 
in'  dinner,  as  the  sayin'  is,"  said  Paget,  in  his  practical 
way. 

"  Well,  it  will  do  to  feed  to  the  chickens.  James,  I  was 
just  going  to  ask  you  what  ever  became  of  the  young 
fellow,  who,  you  were  telling  me,  lived  with  your  son. 
He  seemed  to  have  been  a  clever  young  chap,  from  your 
talk." 

"  'Clever'  ?  Well,  that  ain't  exac'ly  the  word  xur  to 
''<?5cribe  him.  I  ain't  so  hungry  that  I  can't  give  you  the 
pertic'lers  while  the  dinner  gits  cooked  over  agin.  We'll  set 
right  out  door,  by  the  shady  old  well,  ef  our  conversation 
wun't  intyrupt  Mrs. ." 

"  No  ;  "  came  a  voice  from  the  cellarway  ;  "  it  won' t  inter- 
rupt me.     But  dinner  will  soon  be  ready." 

"  You  are  the  curi'stist  folks  not  to  git  excited  that  I  ever 
did  hear  tell  of,"  said  Paget.  "  Well,  this  here  young  man 
took  to  intyferin'  into  everybody's  business.  There's  my 
little  gran'children :  they're  the  'cutest  fellers  fur  to  study 
you  ever  see.  Well,  Joseph,  that  young  man  told  'em  they'd 
got  their  jography  all  mixed  up,  an'  discouraged  'em  so  they 
quit  a-leamin'  it  fur  a  spell ;  an'  then  he  tells  'em  their  gram- 
mars is  writ  wrong ;  an'  their  r-^aders  was  shaky  in  their  his- 
t'ry ;  an'  he  found  terryble  fault  with  the  portry  into  them  ; 
said  the  meetter  was  a-skippin'  a  cog  —  no,  went  a-skippin' 
afoot  now  an'  agin ;   an'   talked  so  high  falutin'  that  the 


J_ 


i 


33a 


How  a  Coolness  Arose 


school-master  threatened  fur  to  report  to  the  Eddication 
Trustees. 

"  Our  folks  let  all  that  pass ;  but  when  he  come  fur  to  talk 
about  things  we  could  all  understand,  an'  said  we  orter  have 
an  even  six  hours  atween  every  meal ;  an'  not  have  no  pies 
an'  things  fur  supper ;  an'  that  it  was  a-gittin'  fashionable 
now-a-days  fur  to  have  nap  kins  onto  the  table  ;  an'  that  I 
was  dead  wrong  to  help  myself  to  onct,  when  I  was  hungry, 
we  begun  to  see  he  was  a-goin'  a  leetle  to  fur. 

"  Bimeby  he  told  the  hired  girl  she  was  puttin'  too  much 
shortenin'  into  the  pastry,  an'  that  she  needn't  cook  no  more 
onions,  'cause  they  didn't  agree  with  him,  an'  we  see  a  storm 
was  a-comin'.  The  nex'  day  he  told  her  that  his  faverrite 
preserve  was  huckleberry  jam  an'  quince  marmerlade  ;  an' 
that  her  milk-pails  wan't  properly  washed  ;  an'  that  she 
didn't  change  her  aprons  often  enough,  an'  we  knowed  the 
air  was  jest  chuck-full  of  steamboat  explosions. 

"  The  hired  girl  hadn't  got  more'n  half  cooled  down  afore 
my  youngest  daughter  comes  in,  an'  he  serlutes  her  with  the 
infermation  that  tain't  nice  fur  real  stylish  schoolgirls  to 
take  an'  plaster  their  chewin'  gum  onto  the  winder-sill  an' 
under  the  table,  an'  we  see  it  was  time  fur  to  take  in  sail,  as 
the  sayin'  is. 

' '  The  same  evenin' ,  or  the  day  before,  I  '  most  forgit  which , 
be  ups  an'  tells  ray  son's  wife  that  it  wan't  considered  gen- 
teel any  more  fur  ladies  to  wear  all  their  jool'ry  at  the 
breakfast  table,  an'  I  mistrusted  there  was  a  dog-fight  on 
the  ticket,  so  to  speak. 

"'Twan't  long  afore  he  insisted  that  the  healthiest  way 
fur  to  sleep  was  to  have  your  windows  open  to  both  ends,  an' 
that  beds  orter  be  aired  'most  all  day;  an'  that  it  was  p'isen 


Eddication 

ne  fur  to  talk 
fe  orter  have 
have  no  pies 
fashionable 
;  an'  that  I 
was  hungry, 

n'  too  much 
ook  no  more 
;  see  a  storm 
his  faverrite 
lerlade  ;  an' 
n'  that  she 
knowed  the 

1  down  afore 
her  with  the 
:hoolgirls  to 
nder-sill  an' 
Ice  in  sail,  as 

brgit  which, 
sidered  gen- 
lol'ry  at  the 
iog-fight  on 

althiest  way 
)th  ends,  an' 
it  was  p'isen 


Between  Bill  aiui  Nero. 


233 


to  bake  pies  onto  a  dish  we'd  had  in  the  family  fur  thirty 
year,  'cause  he  said  the  cracks  into  it  was  full  of  germs,  an* 
I  could  'a'  swore  a  earthquake  was  all  but  upon  us. 

"The  nex'  day  he  quorrl'd  with  the  butcher,  'cause  he 
didn't  make  his  sausages  accordin'  to  his  stric'  notions  of 
proprierty,  as  the  sayin'  is,  an'  we  felt  it  into  our  bones  that 
something  was  dead  sure  fur  to  happen. 

"The  nex'  thing  he  done  he  toF  y  son  it  wan 't etiquette 
to  .set  down  to  the  table  into  his  ~.\  rt  sleeves,  an'  that  dogs 
an'  cats  orter  be  shet  out  door  at  meal  time,  an'  not  be  fed 
permisc'us  like  by  the  hull  family,  an'  that  it  wan't  consid- 
ered perlite  in  these  here  enlightened  days  to  bring  in  tramps 
ofTn  the  street  to  set  down  an'  eat  along  with  the  household. 
I  see  my  son  didn't  like  fur  to  have  a  teetotal  stranger  do  the 
thinkin'  fur  the  hull  family,  .so  I  wan't  surprised  when  he 
reached . ' ' 

"Now,  then,  dinner  is  ready;  and  I'm  sure  we  are  all 
hungry  enough." 

"Well !  Ef  your  wife  don't  beat  all  creation,  Joseph,  fur 
to  hustle  a  meal  of  victuals  onto  the  table  !"  said  Paget, 
striding  into  the  house  and  taking  the  guest's  seat  of  honor, 
directly  under  the  old  clock. 

No  traces  of  the  late  disaster  could  be  seen.     The  floor  was 
perfectly  clean, — dry,  almost, — the  broken  table  was  re- 
moved and  another  stood  in  its  exact  place,  and  a  counterpart 
of  the  "  ruined  "  dinner  was  served. 

The  host  followed  more  leisurely,  and  still  more  leisurely 
began  to  wait  on  the  table. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  impatient  Paget,  who  broke  in  : 
"You're  so  slow,  Joseph,  an'  I'm  so  hungry,  I'll  jest  help 
myself ;  an'  when  you  all  come  to  see  us  you  can  pitch  in  an* 


I 


334 


How  a  Coolness  Arose 


do  the  same.  The  all-fired  smart  young  man  is  non  campus 
menttts,  as  the  sayin'  is,  as  I  was  jest  perceedin'  for  to  tell 
you.  I  hope  you'll  both  excuse  me  ;  but  I  know  the  size  of 
tny  appertite  better' n  other  people." 

And  he  did  help  himself —  to  all  the  viands  on  the  table  at 
once,  his  most  dextrous  feat  being  the  apparently  accidental 
tumbling  on  his  plate  of  two  large  pieces  of  apple  pie.  But 
it  was  not  accidental ;  it  was  the  result  of  adroit  manipula- 
tion of  the  knife,  and  the  deprecatory  glance  ca.st  at  his 
hostess  was  one  of  the  little  arts  that  invariably  accompanied 
it. 

His  plate  was  now  heaped  so  full  of  food  that  it  looked  as 
if  nothing  but  the  most  expert  jugglery  could  keep  it  all  from 
sliding  oflF  into  his  lap.  No  doubt  the  fault-finding  young 
man  he  told  about  so  often  had  been  paving  the  way  for 
much- needed  reforms  in  a  benighted  household. 

The  host  smiled  good-humoredly  ;  but,  woman-like,  the 
hostess  seemed  hurt. 

"How  far  had  we  got  with  that  there  story,  Joseph  ? " 
Paget  suddenly  demanded,  with  his  mouth  full  of  the  various 
dishes  heaped  on  his  plate.  "  I  think  I  must  be  goin'  home 
now  in  a  few  days.  You  see,  they'll  be  gittin'  kinder  lone- 
some about  now,  without  the  old  man,  though  I  hain't  hardly 
got  started  to  make  you  a  visit  yit,  an'  we  want  to  examine 
into  them  there  patents. ' ' 

"Oh,  don't  be  in  a  hurry  yet,  Mr.  Paget,"  said  his  hostess 
kindly.  "Still,  if  you  must  go  — .  There  comes  the  stage 
now,  back  from  Newcastle.  I'll  just  ask  him  to  call  to-mor- 
row for  your  trunk." 

And  she  suited  the  action  to  the  word,  somewhat  to  the 
consternation  of  Mr.  Paget,  who  went  the  next  day,  surely 


-.uav      ^ 


Hon  campus 
i'  for  to  tell 
ir  the  size  of 

the  table  at 
yr  accidental 
le  pie.  But 
t  manipula- 
cast  at  bis 
v-companied 

it  looked  as 
p  it  all  from 
ding  young 
the  way  for 

lan-like,  the 

1,  Joseph?" 
the  various 
goin'  home 
kinder  lone- 
lain't  hardly 
:  to  examine 

1  his  hostess 
les  the  stage 
I  call  to-mor- 

ewhat  to  the 
;  day,  surely 


Between  Bill  and  Nero. 


335 


enough,  leaving  his  interesting  little  story  unfinished  for  ten 
long  years. 

His  kind  host  said  to  him  at  parting  :  "I  have  enjoyed 
your  visit,  James  ;  but  I  didn't  expect  you  would  be  going 
so  soon." 

"  No  more  did  I,  Joseph,"  was  the  lugubrious  answer. 


m^ 


336 


7o  tMi^nonne. 


TO  MIGNONNE. 


A    UOATINC.    SoNf, 


On  the  bosom  of  the  ureal  sen, 
I<ike  n  wild  rose  of  the  ocean, 
Rests  a  lovely,  perfumed  island, 
Coral-bastioiied,  ruby  sky-spainieil, 
Trauquil  'mid  the  waves'  commotion 
As  a  flower  on  a  lone  prairie  ; 
Peaceful  as  a  child  when  sleeping 
With  his  playthings  round  him  scattered  ; 
Where  no  harsh  gales,  ocean-sweeping, 
Cast  up  brave  ships,  torn  and  shattered. 

In  that  free,  yet  sinless  region. 

Wild,  unfettered  birds,  victorious, 

Pipe  their  rhapsodies  sonorous, 

In  a  wayward,  untaught  chorus, 

With  exuberance  uproarious, 

Voicing  Nature's  pure  religion. 

More  in  sadness  than  in  pleasure 

Winds  and  waves  chant  solemn  anthems ; 

But  in  soft,  harmonious  measure, 

Soothing  as  majestic  requiems. 


7o  tMigtiotuie. 

Here  the  wiii<1<«  moan  Biilleii  i\h^e» ; 
Tli«*  poor  cfl'  live  soiij{-t>iril,  lonely, 
Hymni  his  weary  supplicalionH, 
Tinged  with  bitter  liitiieiitationi ; 
I'*rom  the  colil,  nad  sea  rise  only 
Threnodies  of  boisi'rous  surges, 
Here  the  native  songster's  wary, 
And  his  niadriKals  in  full  joy 
Carols  but  from  strongholds  airy, 
Where  he  flies  the  tricky  schoolboy. 

Un  this  calm  and  glorious  even, 

With  the  stars  our  only  pilot, 

Let  us  sail  away  together, 

Willi  this  fav'riiig  breeze  antl  weather, 

To  this  lone  and  lovely  islet. 

Which  shall  be  our  earth  and  heaven, 

In  the  vast  I'.icific  waters, 

Where  the  warm  waves  bathe  the  shingle, 

Where  the  moonlight  longest  loiters. 

And  where  seasons  soft  commingle. 


237 


; 


»-«► 


i^^ 


338 


Hiniin'a  Oath. 


HIRAM'S   OATH. 


Chaptkr  I. 

THE  Wolfe  estate  was  a  noble  one,  stretching  along  the 
Shenandoah  River,  in  Virginia,  near  the  old  town  of 
Winchester.  The  family  traced  their  ancestry  back  to  the 
Plantagenets,  and  boasted  of  having  been  Cavaliers  under 
Charles  the  First,  in  England,  and  patriots  under  Washing- 
ton, in  America. 

But  a  cur.se  rested  on  the  family  —  the  curse  of  hereditary 
insanity.  Sooner  or  later  almost  every  male  member  of  the 
family  became  hopelessly  demented.  Those  who  escaped 
lived  to  a  patriarchal  old  age,  with  intellect  unimpaired ;  but 
they  were  exceptional  cases.  Still  the  family  existed,  for 
most  of  the  young  men,  on  attaining  majority,  believed  they 
would  be  exempt  from  the  general  curse,  and  so  married. 
But  there  had  been  some  who  had  forsworn  marriage,  rather 
than  rear  up  children  to  inherit  the  fatal  malady. 

In  ante-bellum  days  Reginald  Wolfe  was  the  representa- 
tive of  the  family,  and  his  heir  and  only  son  was  Hiram — 
one  of  those  noble  ones  who  had  vowed  to  live  and  die  alone. 
He  was  a  resolute  young  fellow,  with  a  grim  fixedness  of 
purpose,  and  he  seemed  capable  of  keeping  his  vow,  without 


Hiram's  Oatb. 


939 


ig  along  the 
old  town  of 
back  to  the 
aliers  under 
sr  Washing- 

>f  hereditary 
miber  of  the 
vho  escaped 
ipaired ;  but 

existed,  for 
(clieved  they 

so  married, 
■riage,  rather 

;  representa- 
as  Hiram — 
nd  die  alone, 
fixedness  of 
ow,  without 


unhappy  rcpinings  on  the  one  hatul,  or  considering  himself 
a  martyr  worthy  of  canonization  on  the  other  hand.  Yet  he 
made  the  not  unnatural  mistake  of  keeping  his  resolution  too 
prominently  before  him,  so  that  it  influenced  him  in  every 
act  of  his  life. 

"  I  do  not  reproach  you,"  he  said  to  his  father,  "but  no 
son  shall  ever  turn  to  me  and  say,  '  You  have  expo.sed  me  to 
the  curse.'  The  race  dies  with  me  ;  but  it  shall  die  nobly." 
"  It  is  a  resolution  worthy  of  you,  Hiram,"  .said  his  father, 
"  but  remember  that  the  physicians  think  your  chances  of 
escape  are  exceptionally  good." 

"True.  Ihit  that  would  not  p.  ;vent  the  curse  from 
descending  to  posterity.  I  havemadt  i  vow,  and  I  will  iceep 
it ;  and  my  life  shall  be  a  cheerful  one,  too." 

"  God  help  him  if  he  ever  fulls  in  love  ! "  Mr.  ■^\  olfe  .said 
.sorrowfully.  "God  help  him,  for  his  resolution  will  be 
.sorely  tried." 

But  Hiram,  while  assisting  his  father  in  the  .superinte  u  - 
ence  of  the  plantation,  devoted  all  his  leisure  to  books,  ring 
into  society  but  little.  He  went  about  his  da'  '  ities  with 
a  brave  heart,  and  never  wavered  in  his  re.sol  itior 
'  "I  shall  never  be  a  madman,"  he  said  gaily,  "  nor  shall 
I  ever  have  cause  to  repent  of  my  vow." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wolfe  insisted  on  the  gratification  of  their 
son's  every  wish,  but  grieved  about  him  almost  as  much  as 
if  he  had  shown  symptoms  of  insanity.  ' '  Poc  •  fellow  ! ' '  the 
former  often  sighed.  "  His  life  will  be  the  life  of  a  hermit ! 
But  would  that  others  could  have  done  as  he  will  do. 

"If  five  generations  could  escape  the  curse,  it  would 
become  extinct, ' '  .said  Mrs.  Wolfe.  ' '  Could  not  this  be, 
Reginald?" 

"  It  has  been  the  dream  of  o:  family,  but  I  am  afraid  it 
is  only  a  dream.     Five  generatic  '  '    More  than  one  hundred 


I! 


If 


240 


Hiram's  Oath. 


and  sixty  years  !  In  five  generations  there  has  always  been 
at  least  one  in  the  direct  line  who  has  succumbed,  and  the 
probabilities  are  that  there  always  will  be.  Hiram  knows 
that  he  could  not  live  to  see  the  curse  removed,  and  he 
knows  the  cruel  risk  there  is  that  a  son  or  grandson  might 
become  insane.  So  perhaps  it  is  best  that  Hiram  should 
never  marry,  since  he  wills  it  so.  But  God  help  him,  poor 
fellow!" 

Hiram  lived  to  see  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  his 
birthday  without  having  cause  to  repent  of  his  oath.  On 
that  eventful  day  he  was  to  take  a  trip  to  New  York,  on 
business  for  his  father. 

"  I  think  I  am  invulnerable,  mother,"  he  said  at  the  break- 
fast table,  in  answer  to  a  solicitous  inquiry  from  his  mother. 
"  I  am  twenty-five  to-day,  and  as  happy  as  any  man  can  hope 
to  be.  So  keep  a  good  heart,  mother,  and  don't  look  so  sad. 
I  shall  come  back  all  right,  never  fear." 

"  I  think  perhaps  I  had  better  go,  after  all,  Hiram,"  Mr. 
Wolfe  said  slowly.     "  It  —  it  — . " 

"  No,  father;  it  will  do  me  good  to  see  New  York;  I  have 
not  been  there  since  I  was  a  boy.  Don't  be  afraid  for  me. 
I  am  a  monomaniac  on  the  subject  of  our  family  affliction  ; 
but,  for  that  very  reason,  I  shall  see  the  curse  removed,  be- 
cause it  shall  die  with  me.  So  I  have  reason  to  be  happy — 
and  proud,  too." 

Mrs.  Wolfe  bade  Hiram  good-bye  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Have  you  a  presentiment  of  evil,  mother  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  Hiram ;  I  have ;  "  she  answered  sadly.  "  Couldn't 
you  give  it  up,  even  now,  and  not  go  at  all  ?  " 

Hiram  hesitated.  He  loved  his  mother  devotedly,  and 
would  gladly  sacrifice  his  own  pleasure  to  humor  her ;  but 
this  seemed  only  a  whim  of  the  moment,  which  they  would 
laugh  at  together  when  he  came  back  .safe  and  well.    Besides, 


Hiram's  Oath. 


241 


always  been 
ed,  and  the 
iram  knows 
ved,  and  he 
idson  might 
irani  should 
Ip  him,  poor 

rsary  of  his 
s  oath.  On 
sw  York,  on 

it  the  break- 
his  mother. 

lan  can  hope 
look  so  sad. 

[iram,"  Mr. 

""ork;  I  have 
raid  for  me. 
y  affliction  ; 
emoved,  be- 
be  happy — 

1  her  eyes. 
"  he  asked. 
"Couldn't 

TOtedly,  and 
lor  her ;  but 
L  they  would 
ill.    Besides, 


he  must  occasionally  go  out  into  the  great  world  ;  .so  why 
should  he  hesitate  about  going  now  ? 

"  No,  mother,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  I  will  go.  But  don't 
be  alarmed  about  me.  Depend  upon  it,  no  one  shall  spirit 
me  away.     I  have  made  a  vow ;  I  am  safe.     Good-bye. ' ' 

He  was  gone  ;  and  Mrs.  Wolfe  kept  repeating  to  herself, 
"  '  I  have  made  a  vow  ;  I  am  safe.'  " 

Hiram  transacted  his  father's  business  in  the  great  city, 
and  said  to  himself,  as  his  train  drew  out  of  the  Jersey  City 
depot:  "Just  three  days  since  I  bade  my  mother  good-bye, 
and  now  I  am  ready  to  go  home  and  see  her  again.  Poor 
mother !  how  fond  she  is  !  How  we  shall  laugh  at  her 
presentiment !  But  I  am  glad  that  I  have  got  along  all 
right  and  have  made  a  beginning  in  seeing  the  world.  The 
world  !    What  do  I  care  for  it  and  its  mockeries  ?  " 

The  return  journey  was  without  incident  till,  shortly  after 
leaving  Baltimore,  a  pleasant  voice  nearly  opposite  asked,  in 
a  subdued  undertone,  "  Who  is  that  grave  young  gentleman, 
Herbert  ?     Did  you  know  him  at  Yale  ?  ' ' 

"  Don't  know;  don't  want  to  know.  Some  lucky  dog  with 
lots  of  funds,  from  his  appearance,"  said  a  gruff  voice. 

Hiram  glanced  amusedly  towards  the  speakers,  and  saw  a 
fair  young  girl,  with  an  exquisite  physiognomy,  spiritualized 
by  sad,  yet  bewitching  eyes.  Beside  her  sat  a  spare  and 
morose-looking  young  fellow,  with  a  dare-devil  air— evidently 
the  person  addressed  as  Herbert. 

Their  eyes  met.  The  young  lady  blushed,  for  she  knew 
her  question  had  been  overheard,  and  turned  her  eyes  away 
quickly.  Hiram  felt  a  thrill  of  pain  or  pleasure,  he  knew  not 
which,  and  as  quickly  turned  away. 

But  that  fair  face  haunted  him,  and  soon  he  turned  to  steal 
another  glance  at  it.  Again  their  eyes  met;  again  both 
looked  away. 


-;-Wf3sJi 


242 


Hiram's  Oath. 


"This  won't  do  !  "  Hiram  said  to  himself.  "  I  must  re- 
member my  oath,  and  avoid  temptation.  A  child  must  not 
play  with  fire  ;  and  in  many  things  I  am  but  a  child." 

He  took  a  newspaper  out  of  his  pocket  and  was  soon  en- 
grossed in  reading  it.  He  thought  of  the  young  couple 
opposite,  and  reflected  that  they  would  probably  leave  him 
at  Harper's  Ferry  ;  but  he  did  not  again  even  glance  in  their 
direction. 

The  conductor  came  hurrying  through  the  train,  with  so 
troubled  a  look  that  every  one  thought,  instinctively,  "There 
is  danger  ! "  Every  face  grew  pale,  and  many  a  stout  heart 
quailed.  But  what  should  they  do  ?  Was  the  danger  immi- 
nent ?    What  was  it  ? 

Hiram  was  not  afraid,  but  he  thought  of  the  loved  ones  at 
home.     ' '  Poor,  dear  mother  !     Is  this  her  presentiment  ? ' ' 

Then  his  thoughts  reverted  to  the  fair  young  girl,  and  he 
wondered  whether  she  was  still  in  the  car.  He  stole  a 
glance  —  yes,  there  she  sat,  looking  pale,  yet  resolute. 

"She  is  brave,"  commented  Hiram  ;  "braver  than  many 
a  man  in  this  carriage. " 

A  loud  and  long  shriek  from  the  engine.  Then  the  door 
opened  and  the  conductor  shouted,  "Save  yourselves!  A 
train  is  coming  !    Jump  to  the  right  !  " 

There  was  a  panic.  The  passengers  rose  to  their  feet  and 
strove  desperately  to  reach  the  door,  but  becoming  pressed 
together,  blocked  the  passage. 

' '  Which  is  the  right  ?  Which  is  the  right  ? ' '  gasped  terri- 
fied men  and  women  helplessly. 

Seeing  the  forward  end  of  the  coach  free,  Hiram  forced  his 
way  through  to  it. 

"  This  way  !  "  he  said  to  a  portly  old  lady,  and  .she  came 
forward  and  jumped  courageously  off  the  train. 

By  ones  and  twos,  Hiram  assisted  nearly  twenty  persons 


r|«i 


Hiram's  Oath. 


243 


"  I  must  re- 
hild  must  not 
I  child." 
was  soon  en- 
young  couple 
ibly  leave  hira 
jlance  in  their 

train,  with  so 
ively,  "There 
r  a.  stout  heart 
:  danger  immi- 

:  loved  ones  at 
entiment?" 
ig  girl,  and  he 
He  stole  a 
resolute, 
^er  than  many 

Then  the  door 
)urselves  !    A 

their  feet  and 
)ming  pressed 

'  gasped  terri- 

rani  forced  his 

and  .she  came 

1. 

venty  persons 


to  jump  off— among  them,  the  fair  young  lady.  Then  the 
rest,  having  more  room  to  move  about,  scrambled  out  of  the 
coach  and  reached  the  ground. 

The  train  was  now  almost  at  a  standstill,  and  there  were 
but  few  in  this  or  any  car,  when  there  came  a  terrible  shock, 
and  Hiram  and  the  other  unfortunates  with  him  were  buried 
in  the  ruins  of  a  wrecked  railway  train. 

Those  who  had  escaped  did  everything  in  their  power  to 
save  the  victims  buried  under  the  broken  carriages.  But 
they  could  not  effect  much  till  a  wrecking  party  came  to  the 
relief,  when,  after  a  few  hours'  imprisonment,  the  poor  suf- 
ferers were  liberated  and  taken  to  Baltimore  or  elsewhere  for 
treatment,  some  of  them  succumbing  to  their  injuries. 


Chapter  H. 

WixEN  Hiram  Wolfe  recovered  consciousness,  he  found 
himself  lying  on  a  sofa  in  a  darkened  room.  He  wondered 
what  it  all  meant,  when  a  shooting  pain  in  his  knee  brought 
back  to  memory  that  awful  scene  on  the  train.  He  groaned, 
and  moved  restlessly. 

A  figure  in  white  softly  drew  near  him  ;  a  sweet  young 
face  bent  pityingly  but  gladly  over  him.  It  was  a  face  that 
he  knew  —  the  face  of  her  whom  he  had  seen  and  saved  on 
the  train. 

"Are  you  feeling  better?"  she  asked,  in  so  musical  a 
voice  that  Hiram  started,  and  looked  long  and  intently  into 
her  eyes. 

"You  are  right,  Alice,"  said  a  gruCF  voice  ;  and  the  young 
.man  who  answered  to  the  name  of  Herbert  strode  into  the 
room.  "  He  is  the  same  fellow,  and  his  name  is  Wolfe,  poor 
devil." 


244 


Hiram's  Oath. 


"  Oh,  hush,  Herbert  !  "  said  the  young  lady  reproachfully. 
Then  she  whispered,  "He  is  conscious  now." 

"Is  he?"  and  Herbert  walked  softly  to  the  sofa  and 
looked  compassionately  at  the  poor  sufferer.  "Poor  fel- 
low !"  he  murmured.  "He  is  indeed  a  hero,  and,"  under 
his  breath  and  glancing  towards  Alice,  "he has  met  a  hero's 
fate!" 

But  Herbert  had  a  warm  heart,  and  he  said  warmly,  "  Mr. 
Wolfe,  we  owe  you  a  debt  of  gratitude  that  can  never  be 
cancelled.  You  nobly  saved  my  sister's  life,  and  the  life  of 
many  on  our  car.  You  must  be  our  guest  till  you  are  en- 
tirely restored  to  health ;  and  everything  that  medical  skill 
and  good  nursing  can  do,  shall  be  done.  I  myself  will  be 
your  nurse,  and  I  will  administer  your  medicines  and  see 
that  you  obey  orders." 

"  Thank  you,"  Hiram  said  faintly.  "  But  am  I  so  badly 
hurt  that  I  can  not  be  taken  home  ?  " 

"  Doctors'  orders  are  positive  that  you  must  not  be  moved ; 
so  make  the  best  of  it,  my  dear  fellow,  and  be  contented. 
You  shall  be  well  taken  care  of;  and  I  will  telegraph  for  any 
of  your  people  that  you  may  wish  to  have  come. ' ' 

"My  father  would  have  detained  you  here,  Mr.  Wolfe, 
even  though  you  had  escaped  unhurt,  to  express  his  grati- 
tude to  you,"  said  Alice. 

"Yes,"  said  her  brother  ruefully,  "you  robbed  me  of  the 
honor  of  saving  my  sister's  life." 

Not  another  word  of  explanation  from  the  young  man, 
but,  as  Alice  afterwards  explained,  he  had  thought  her  safe 
and  had  gone  into  the  next  car,  where  they  had  noticed  a 
helpless  blind  man,  whom  he  found  and  assisted  off  the  train. 

"  All  this  excitement  and  trouble  has  caused  us  to  take 
an  extraordinary  interest  in  you,  Mr.  Wolfe,"  continued 
Herbert,  with  an  arch  look  at  his  sister.     "  If  you  hesitate 


Hiram's  Oath. 


:proachfulIy. 

he  sofa  and 

"Poor  fel- 

and,"  under 

met  a  hero's 

armly,  "Mr. 
:an  never  be 
id  the  life  of 
you  are  en- 
tnedical  skill 
yself  will  be 
ines  and  see 

tn  I  so  badly 

3t  be  moved ; 
e  contented. 
;raph  for  any 

Mr.  Wolfe, 
!ss  his  grati- 

;d  me  of  the 

young  man, 
ight  her  safe 
ad  noticed  a 
off  the  train, 
d  us  to  take 
'  continued 
you  hesitate 


345 


to  remain  as  our  guest,  you  must  remember  you  are  our 
prisoner.  So  say  the  physicians,  my  respected  parents,  and 
every  one  concerned." 

"  You  are  bent  on  acting  the  good  Samaritan,  in  spite  of 
me,"  Hiram  said  laughingly,  "and  I  can  only  assure  you  of 
my  deep  obligation  to  you  all.  What  is  the  name  of  my 
kind  benefactors,  and  where  am  I  ?  " 

"Sinclair  is  our  patronymic;  and  I  am  Herbert  J.  Sin- 
clair, the  most  graceless  good-for-naught  of  my  day  and 
generation.  But  this,"  with  an  involuntary  softening  of  his 
voice,  ' '  is  Miss  Alice,  my  sister,  who  atones  for  all  ray  short- 
comings. As  for  the  scene  of  this  interview,  it  is  the  home 
of  our  ancestors, —  that  is,  of  my  deceased  great-grand- 
parents, who  were  emigrant  vagabonds, —  in  Frederick,  State 
of  Maryland.  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Wolfe,  while  I  call  my 
mother  in." 

"Don't  think  my  brother  has  lost  his  wits,"  srailed  Alice. 
"  He  talks  in  that  absurd  way  for  his  own  amuse^.  ent." 

"  Come,  Alice  ;  don't  talk  about  my  own  'amusement,'  " 
said  Herbert,  in  a  hard  and  bitter  tone,  as  he  left  the  room. 
In  a  moment  he  returned  with  Mrs.  Sinclair,  whom  be  form- 
ally introduced  to  the  sufferer. 

Mrs.  Sinclair  was  a  refined,  elderly  lady,  of  a  deeply  sym- 
pathetic nature  ;  and  as  the  mother  of  this  singular  brother 
and  sister,  Hiram  became  interested  in  her  at  once. 

' '  What  is  the  extent  of  my  injuries  ? ' '  Hiram  asked,  after 
Mrs.  Sinclair's  kindly  inquiries  were  satisfied. 

"  Broken  bones  ;  contusions  ;  a  shock  to  the  nervous  sys- 
tem ;  divers  wounds  that  will  leave  scars  as  mementoes  of 
this  event,"  Herbert  made  answer. 

"No,  Herbert;  it's  not  so  bad  as  that!"  Alice  said 
quickly. 


-«H 


346 


Hiram's  Oath. 


"  A  business-like  inventory  of  my  hurts,"  laughed  Hiram. 
"  And  now,  how  long  before  I  shall  be  convalescent  ?  " 

"  Depends  on  the  doctors,"  Herbert  said  grimly.  Then 
carelessly,  "Oh,  two  months,  or  thereabouts,  and  you  will 
have  so  completely  recovered  that  you  will  be  ready  to  pack 
up,  and  off,  and  forget  us.  Meanwhile,  you  will  not  suflFer 
much  pain,  Mr.  Wolfe,  and  I  will  give  you  a  recipe  for  dull- 
ing pain  —  that  is,  mental  pain." 

Herbert  Sinclair  left  the  patient's  couch  and  strode  towards 
an  outer  door,  softly  whistling  ''Die  Wacht  ant  Rhem." 

But  he  h  d  v/histled  only  a  few  bars  when  he  checked 
himself  abruptly,  flung  open  the  door,  and  clapped  it  to 
behind  him  with  a  bang.  In  a  moment  he  opened  the  door 
softly,  thrust  his  head  in  at  the  opening,  and  said  shortly, 
"  Excuse  me."  Then  the  door  closed  .softly,  and  they  heard 
him  crunching  rapidly  away  along  the  graveled  walk. 

Hiram  said  nothing,  but  he  noticed  that  tears  stood  in 
Alice's  eyes  and  that  Mrs.  Sinclair  looked  sorely  troubled. 
' '  A  clear  case  of  an  undutiful  son  and  brother, ' '  he  reflected, 
in  his  naive  inexperience. 

Mrs.  Wolfe  came  immediately  on  receipt  of  a  telegram,  and 
saw  at  once  that  it  was  out  of  the  question  for  Hiram  to  be 
taken  home  till  he  should  be  convalescent.  A  warm  friend- 
ship sprang  up  between  her  and  Alice  ;  and  Hiram,  cared  for 
by  these  two  and  by  Herbert,  soon  began  to  mend. 

Hiram  was  thrown  much  upon  Miss  Sinclair's  society. 
When  he  was  able  she  read  to  him  and  sang  for  him,  and 
seemed  to  ti  ;e  the  greatest  pleasure  in  ministering  to  his 
comfort.  One  day  she  revealed  the  story  of  her  brother's 
unhappiness,  which  was  becoming  a  sad  puzzle  to  Hiram. 

"  Mr.  Wolfe,  to  remove  any  harsh  opinion  you  may  have 
formed  of  my  brother,  I  will  explain  to  you  the  cause  of  his 
strange  conduct,"  she  began.     "  It  is  not  mere  eccentricity. 


o> 


Hiram's  Oath. 


247 


;hed  Hiram. 
;ent?" 
mly.  Then 
nd  you  will 
:ady  to  pack 
11  not  suffer 
:ipe  for  dull- 

rode  towards 

/?A«M." 

he  checked 
•lapped  it  to 
led  the  door 
said  shortly, 
d  they  heard 

walk. 

lars  stood  in 
:ly  troubled. 

he  reflected, 

elegrani,  and 
Hiram  to  be 
warm  friend- 
am,  cared  for 
nd. 

air's  society, 
for  him,  and 
tering  to  his 
lier  brother's 
to  Hiram, 
lu  may  have 
cause  of  his 
eccentricity. 


as  he  would  have  you  think,  but  a  settled  grief,  that  I  am 
afraid  will  be  life-long.  Four  years  ago,  my  brother  was  to 
have  been  married  to  a  beautiful  young  lady,  an  actress.  No 
one  can  know  how  he  loved  her,  and  she  seemed  to  love  him. 
The  day  of  their  marriage  was  set,  and  everything  seemed 
to  be  going  on  smoothly.  My  brother's  happine.ss  was  so 
great  that  he  was  almost  beside  himself.  On  the  day  before 
the  wedding  he  went  to  Washington,  where  they  were  to  be 
married.  He  reached  Washington  late  in  the  evening,  but 
late  as  it  was,  he  wrote  us  a  long  letter.  Poor  Herbert !  We 
have  that  letter  yet,  and  it  almost  makes  me  cry  to  think  of 
it.  He  said  he  did  not  know  what  good  he  had  ever  done 
(and  he  was  always  doing  good,  in  a  quiet  way,  Mr.  Wolfe) 
that  God  should  permit  him  to  enjoy  such  happiness,  and  he 
hoped  he  should  prove  worthy  of  his  treasure.  The  next 
morning  Herbert  went  to  the  church  where  they  were  to 
have  been  married ;  but  oh,  Mr.  Wolfe !  she  had  deserted 
him  !  " 

' '  Deserted  him  ?  ' '  queried  Hiram,  aghast.     ' '  How  ? ' ' 
"Yes!    The  evening  before,  she  married  an  old  Jew,  a 
millionaire,  and  stole  away,  leaving  only  a  cruel  note  for 
Herbert." 

' '  Poor  fellow  ! ' '  sighed  Hiram.    ' '  I  had  misj  udged  him. ' ' 

"  Herbert  as  a  boy  used  to  delight  in  the  air  you  heard 

him  start  to  whistle  the  other  day,  —  'Die  Wacht  am  Rhein,' 

—  and  the  woman  he  loved  used  to  play  it  for  him.     He 

forgets  himself  sometimes,  poor  fellow  !  " 

"  This  is  a  sad  story.  Miss  Sinclair,  and  I  feel  for  your 
brother  as  if  he  were  my  own.  He  would  have  been  a  noble 
man  ;  but  now  his  life  is  blasted." 

"  Yes,  his  experience  has  been  bitter  enough.  But  pray 
don't  let  him  suspect  that  you  know  this.  I  have  told  you 
it  in  confidence,  so  that  you  should  not  judge  him  hardly." 


2^8 


Hiram's  Oath. 


It  was  fated  that  these  two  should  love  each  other,  and 
under  all  the  circumstances  it  was  inevitable.  Hiram 
struggled  against  it  resolutely,  knowing  that  it  must  end  in 
a  bitter  parting.  But  his  love  grew  stronger  every  day,  and 
his  resolution  weaker.  His  health  ceased  to  mend,  and 
there  was  danger  of  a  serious  relapse.  Still  he  fought  against 
the  inevitable,  though  his  struggles  became  feebler  from 
day  to  day. 

"  If  I  could  only  get  away  !  "  he  murmured.  "  How  can 
I  help  loving  her,  when  I  see  her  every  day  ?  And  then  she 
is  so  good  to  me.  A  man  may  think  himself  in  love  with  a 
woman,  not  knowing  her  inner  life,  because  he  can  not  see  it. 
But  here  am  I  in  Alice's  house,  with  every  opportunity  to 
know  every  phase  of  her  character.  And  what  is  she  ?  All 
that  is  unselfish,  and  artless,  and  pure,  and  noble.  God  help 
me !  it  is  hard  !  What  makes  it  harder  still,  I  feel  that 
Alice  loves  me  ! ' ' 

In  this  way  Hiram  battled  with  his  love.  He  wanted  to 
subdue  this  passion  ;  to  prove  himself  a  hero.  But  what 
should  he  gain  by  it,  after  all  ?  he  asked  himself.  Was  it 
the  part  of  a  hero  to  conquer  his  love  for  so  noble  a  woman, 
because  of  his  oath  ?  Why  should  two  hearts  be  rent  ? — 
But  then,  the  curse  ! 

"  Is  that  my  fault  ?  Did  I  bring  the  curse  upon  myself? 
Why  did  I  bind  myself  by  such  an  oath  ?  But  no  ;  I  was 
right.  I  have  not  broken  my  oath  yet,  and  God  helping  me, 
I  will  keep  it,  and  so  do  right. ' ' 

Hiram  was  right ;  Alice  loved  him. 

Mrs.  Wolfe  and  Herbert  Sinclair  discovered  that  these  two 
souls  loved  each  other,  and  that  one,  Hiram,  was  fighting 
against  it. 

One  day  Herbert  seated  himself  beside  the  sufferer  and 


Hiram's  Oath. 


349 


:h  other,  and 
i)le.  Hiram 
:  must  end  in 
ery  day,  and 
>  mend,  and 
mght  against 
feebler  from 

"  How  can 
\nd  then  she 
I  love  with  a 
an  not  see  it. 
jportunity  to 
is  she  ?  All 
e.  God  help 
I,  I  feel  that 

[e  wanted  to 
But  what 
self.  Was  it 
3le  a  woman, 
5  be  rent  ? — 

ipon  myself? 
t  no ;  I  was 
i  helping  me, 


lat  these  two 
was  fighting 

sufferer  and 


said  bluntly,  "  Mr.  Wolfe,  did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  you 
have  won  my  sister's  love  ?  " 

Hiram  quivered  from  head  to  foot,  and  said  faintly,  "Have 
I,  Mr.  Sinclair  ?  I — I — can  only  say  that  it  is  a  most  unfor- 
tunate mistake.     I — ." 

"  '  Mistake  ?'  What  sort  of  mistake  do  you  call  it,  pray  ? 
I  don't  understand  you  at  all.  I  am  blunt  myself;  and  1 
want  you  to  be  blunt  —  or,  at  least,  frank." 

"I  can  never  marry,"  Hiram  said  sadly. 

"Never  marry,  eh?  Come,  now;  whose  husband  are 
you,  or  have  you  been  ? ' ' 

"There  is  a  curse  in  our  family — the  curse  of  insanity. 
I  have  sworn  never  to  transmit  that  curse ;  I  never  will. ' ' 

"So,  is  that  your  reason?  What  sort  of  insanity?  sui- 
cidal mania?  hydrophobia?  delirium  tremens?  fanaticism? 
or,"  scowling  at  Hiram,  "family  pride?" 

Then  followed  a  long  talk,  which  resulted  in  a  good  under- 
standing between  the  two  young  men. 

"  And  you  do  love  my  sister?  "  Herbert  queried. 

"  Love  her?  Oh,  Herbert !  if  you  could  know  what  I 
have  suffered  ! ' ' 

' ' '  Suffered '  ?  That  is  good  !  You  have  suffered ! ' '  with 
a  hard  smile.  "Well,  a  lesson  in  suffering  will  do  you 
good.  Pshaw!  what  cause  have  you  to  suffer?  Hiram,  do 
you  remember  Alice's  question,  on  the  train?" 

"  Whether  you  had  known  me  at  Yale  ?  I  am  not  a  Yale 
man,  but  I  attended  our  own  University  of  Virginia." 

"Don't!"  cried  Herbert,  with  an  impatient  gesture. 
"You  demonstrated  the  fact  that  you  could  read  when  you 
took  up  your  newspaper.  Hiram,  it  was  a  case  of  love  at 
sight  with  my  sister." 

"  How  do  you  know  this  ?  "  Hiram  asked  eagerly. 


aso 


Hi  rum's  Oath. 


"Because  my  sister  is  so  artles-s  that  I  read  her  every 
thought." 

Iliram  groaned,  and  said  desperately,  "  Don't  you  think  I 
am  strong  enough  to  go  home,  Herbert  ? ' ' 

"  Are  you  engaged  to  my  sister  yet  ?  "  was  the  surprising 
question. 

"Engaged?  Herbert!  How  can  you  ask  that,  after 
what  I  have  told  you  ? ' ' 

"Because  after  your  engagement  to  my  sister  you  will 
rally  so  fast  that  you  will  astonish  yourself." 

"But  the  family  curse?" 

"  What  do  you  know  about  the  '  family  curse  ?  '  It  is  all 
moonshine  —  in  your  case. ' ' 

' '  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? ' '  Hiram  demanded  peev- 
ishly. 

"This:  whatever  fools  or  lunatics  your  ancestors  may 
have  been,  your  mind  is  sound.  You  will  never  be  insane 
—  unless  you  are  now  ! ' '  grimly, 

' '  What  does  all  this  mean  ?  " 

"  I  once  made  demonology  the  study  of  my  life." 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Hiram,  in  sad  perplexity. 

"  Dementia  —  psychology  —  anthropology  —  phrenitis  — 
to  use  a  generic  and  explicit  term,  insanity.  You  see,  I 
once  contemplated  lunacy  myself. ' ' 

"  You  are  an  unconscionable  joker,"  laughed  Hiram. 

"  No ;  I  am  a  pathologist.  I  have  arrived  at  my  own  con- 
clusions about  your  case,  Hiram,  and  you  will  be  exempt 
from  the  curse.  Twenty  years  from  to-day,  unless  you  ex- 
perience some  maddening  grief,  or  reverse,  you  will  be  safe, 
and  the  curse  will  be  extinct ;  for,  I  venture  to  predict,  the 
last  of  your  race  to  suffer  from  it  is  in  his  grave." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  this  ?  "  Hiram  asked  doubtfully. 

"I  pledge  you  my  word  of  honor  for  it,"  Herbert  said 


Hiram's  OiUh. 


»S» 


id  her  every 
you  think  I 

le  surprising 
that,   after 

iter  you  will 

?  '     It  is  all 

anded  peev- 

icestors  may 
er  be  insane 


fe." 

■  pbrenitis  — 
You  see,  I 

i  Hiram, 
my  own  con- 
1  be  exempt 
aless  you  ex- 
will  be  safe, 
predict,  the 

»  » 

tfully. 
Herbert  said 


solemnly.  "  Hiram,  I  had  heard  of  the  Wolfes  of  Virginia, 
and  I  made  your  case  a  study  the  moment  you  came  to  us." 

Hiram  looked  up  .surprised.  "I  —I  can  hardly  believe 
that  the  curse  is  removed."  he  said,  with  tears  glistening  in 
his  eyes.  "  But  I  did  not  know  that  you  are  a  physician. 
Have  you  lieen  treating  me  ?  or  is  your  practice  so  exten  — ." 

"  Practice  ?  "  broke  in  Herbert,  with  a  bitter  laugh.  "Oh, 
I  don't  'practise'  anything." 

After  a  pause  Hiram  said  hesitatingly  :  "  This  is  so  sud- 
den, so  unexpected,  so  incredible,  that  it  seems  altogether 
visionary.     I  —  I  must  have  time  to  consider  this  ;   I  — ." 

"  I  expected  you  to  doubt  me,"  Herbert  said  dryly.  "  But 
do  you  really  think  I  could  trifle  with  you  ?  Do  you  suppose 
I  would  see  my  sister  married  to  a  madman  ? ' ' 

"You  honestly  think,  then,  that  I  can  shake  off  the 
curse  ? " 

"  'The  curse  ! '  Hiram,  I  have  heard  enough  of  this ;  it  is 
indeed  a  curse  to  you.  Come,  now ;  what  about  this  horrible 
resolution,  or  oath,  of  yours  ?     Have  you  it  in  writing  ?  " 

"I  —  I — .  When  I  first  formed  the  resolve,  Herbert,  I 
did  not  know  what  it  is  to  love ;  .so  I  relied  on  my  own 
strength  of  will,  and  simply  bound  myself  by  swearing  an 
oath." 

"  But  since  you  came  here?  "  Herbert  questioned. 

Hiram  started,  and  moved  uneasily  on  his  couch. 

"I  see,"  Herbert  pursued.  "Since  you  came  here  you 
have  drawn  up  a  fresh  resolution,  and  signed  it  with  your 
blood,  perhaps.    Let  me  take  a  look  at  it,  Hiram." 

"  Promise  me  not  to  destroy  it,  Herbert !  "  pleadingly. 

"  Hiram  !  have  you  so  little  faith  !     L/et  me  see  it." 

Reluctantly  Hiram  drew  a  paper  from  his  bosom  and 
silently  handed  it  to  Herbert.  The  writing  on  it  was  almost 
illegil)Ie,  as  Hiram,  to  strengthen  his  resolution,  had  written 


asa 


Hiram' 


fly 


i'.m^, 


it  while  sufTeiing  mutitnl  and  pljysical  pain  It  was  of  the 
nature  of  an  oath,  caUin({  down  nn  imprecation  upon  himsi:lf 
if  he  ever  deviated  in  the  slijjlUest  degree  from  liis  vow. 

As  Herl)ert  ran  over  tliis  pajH-r  a  suspicioijs  moisture  dim- 
med his  eyes.  He  grasped  the  .sick  man's  hand  and  said 
brokenly:  "  Forgive  me,  Hiram;  I  have  treated  you  inlui- 
manly,  when  you  were  mo.st  in  need  of  gentleness  and  sym- 
pathy. You  mean  well,  Hiram,  and  you  are  fighting  your 
battle  stubbornly,  but  against  dreadful  and  hopeless  odds.  I 
.see  that  you  have  suffered, — are  suffering, — and  I  ask  your 
pardon.  But  will  you  let  me  keep  this  for  you,  for  ju.st  one 
week  ?     You  can  trust  me  with  it  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Hiram,  did  you  ever  hear  of  Dr. ,  the  great  special- 
ist ?  " 

"Yes,  I  have,"  said  Hiram  eagerly. 

"Well,  I  have  sent  for  him  to  come  down  to  Fret'erick 
to-morrow,  to  see  you.  Can  you  rely  on  /it's  opinion?" 
reproachfully. 

"  Oh,  Herbert !  what  a  strange  man  you  are  !  " 

"  But  if  he  confirms  what  I  insist  upon  ?  " 

"  If  he  confirms  it,  I  accept  my  freedom,  thank  Gotl  !  " 

"  Hiram,"  gaily,  "you  look  better  already  !  You  will  be 
down  town,  buying  your  own  cigars,  in  ten  days."  Then  in 
his  old,  cynical  way :  "Don't  take  it  too  much  to  heart ;  but 
doesn't  it  seem  to  you  that,  sickly  novels  aside,  a  man  is  a 
downright  noodle  to  try  to  play  the  hero  in  love-affairs? 
Why  should  a  sensible  man  aflPect  to  be  a  great  moral  hero, 
when  he  might  far  better  be  the  husband  of  the  woman  he 
loves  ?  It's  all  bosh  ;  the  modem  high-flown  novel  is  stulti- 
fying us  all.  Some  men  are  born  to  suffer  for  a  life-time,  eh? 
Poor  devils !  let  them  suffer,  then  !     That  does  not  concern 


ii 


Hiram's  Chith. 


»5$ 


was  of  the 
ipoii  hiin.sclf 
iiis  vow. 
oisture  dini- 
lul  and  said 
A  you  iiihu- 
■ss  and  sym- 
ghtitiK  your 
■less  odds.  I 
:1  I  ask  your 

for  just  one 


reat  special- 

to  Fre('erick 
f  opinion  ?  ' ' 


ikGotl  !•• 

You  will  be 
i."  Then  in 
to  heart ;  but 
e,  a  tnan  is  a 

love-affairs  ? 

moral  hero, 
lie  woman  he 
ovel  is  stulti- 
life-time,  eh  ? 

not  concern 


yon. —  P.shnw  !  Miram,  I  am  worse  than  Job's  comforters,  ch  ? 
Or  does  tlie  word  'n<x)dlc'  grate  painfully  on  your  car  ?  " 

With  a  hard  smile  on  his  lips  Herbert  strode  out  of  the 
room.  Hiram  had  come  to  know  what  that  hard  smile  and 
rough  language  meant, —  that  Herliert's  old  wound  was 
bleeding  again, —  and  he  was  not  angry  with  the  restless, 
unhappy  mortal,  who  could  nr>t  apply  his  philosophy  to  his 
own  case. 

"  In  any  other  than  he,  I  should  suspect  lunacy,"  Hiram 
mused. 


Chapter  HI. 

Thb  next  day  the  venerable  old  doctor  arrived  from  New 
York,  and  carefully  examined  into  Hiram's  ca.se.  After 
hearing  the  family  historj'  from  Hiram  and  Mrs.  Wolfe  he 
reported  most  favorably,  advancing  the  same  hope  that 
Herbert  had  done,  that  the  curse  would  be  removed. 

"By  taking  the  greatest  care  of  yourself,  by  having  no 
anxiety  to  prey  on  your  mind,  and  no  business  or  family 
cares,  in  twenty  years  or  so  all  traces  of  insanity  will  have 
disappeared,"  said  the  great  doctor. 

Herliert  looked  triumphant  —  pleased,  no  doubt,  that  the 
learned  mind-doctor  was  merely  echoing  his  own  words, 
Mrs.  Wolfe  stood  by  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  No  others  were 
present  at  the  interview,  or  guessed  its  purport. 

"What  do  you  advise  me  to  do  meanwhile?"  Hiram 
asked. 

"  During  these  twenty  years  ?  As  your  mind  must  be  free 
from  care,  I  should  advise  that  you  go  and  establish  a  home 
for  yourself  on  the  plains  —  a  ranch  in  Texas,  say.  Avoid 
undue  excitement,  but  keep  yourself  employed  all  the  time, 
even  though  you  have  to  do  all  the  work  yoitnself.     Keep  a 


254 


Hiram's  Oath. 


II 


spirited  horse  always  in  your  stables,  and  whenever  you  feel 
low-spirited,  mount  it  on  the  instant,  and  gallop  away  as  if 
you  were  pursued  by  Comanches  or  hobomokkos.  What 
you  want  is,  to  keep  your  spirits  up, —  not  too  high,  not  to 
excitement, —  and  always  to  be  cheerful.  Whenever  you 
begin  to  feel  depressed  in  spirits,  have  something  to  do  that 
will  engross  your  attention  wholly.  '  Secure  Dickens'  novels, 
Shakespeare's  and  Molifere's  comedies,  anything  diverting  ; 
and,  above  all,  don't  forget  that  wild  horse.  A  horseback 
journey  through  the  new  State  of  Texas,  or  even  through 
the  Union,  would  be  a  good  idea,  if  you  didn't  attempt  it  all 
at  once.  Don't  permit  any  cares,  great  or  small,  to  prey  on 
your  mind,  and  —  that  is  all. ' ' 

' '  And  so  in  twenty  years  the  curse  is  extinct  !  A  long 
time  !  " 

"Now,  don't  chafe  about  that,  Mr.  Wolfe.  In  twenty 
years  you  will  have  removed  the  ban  of  the  house  of  Wolfe. 
Let  that  — " 

"  The  wolf's-bane,  so  to  speak  !  "  Herbert  broke  in. 

"  Let  that,"  continued  the  doctor,  "  be  your  watch-word. 
It  is  a  long  time,  it  is  true  ;  I  shall  not  live  to  see  it ;  but 
twenty  years  hence  you  will  look  back  upon  to-day  as  not  so 
very  long  ago. ' ' 

"  And  if  I  pass  through  this  period  I  am  safe,  unless  — ." 

"  Unless  some  great  trouble  should  come  upon  you.  But 
hope  for  the  best,  and  trust  in  Heaven." 

"One  word  more,  doctor:  Could  you  have  removed  the 
curse  from  our  family  earlier,  by  the  same  method  of  treat- 
ment?" 

"That  is  a  question  that  I  can  not  answer,  Mr.  Wolfe, 
without  data  respecting  the  temperament  of  the  victims." 

"Is  he  not  a  fine  subject  for  the  experiment  ? "  Herbert 
inquired,  with  an  admiring  glance  at  Hiram. 


Hiram's  Oath. 


255 


ver  you  feel 
away  as  if 
kos.  What 
high,  not  to 
lenever  you 
g  to  do  that 
tens'  novels, 
g  diverting ; 
\.  horseback 
ven  through 
ittempt  it  all 
1,  to  prey  on 

:t  !     A  long 

In  twenty 
se  of  Wolfe. 

-okc  in. 
watch- word, 
see  it ;  but 
iay  as  not  so 

,  unless — ." 
n  you.     But 

removed  the 
hod  of  treat- 

■,  Mr.  Wolfe, 
victims." 
t?"  Herbert 


"Yes,  indcd  ;  this  is  the  hour  and  the  man,"  laughed  the 
doctor. 

Mrs.  Wolfe  had  a  long  talk  that  evening  with  Hiram.  She 
earnestly  advised  him  to  tell  Alice  everything,  and  give  no 
further  thought  to  the  family  aiBiction.  "Your  oath  is  not 
binding  now,  Hiram,"  she  said  ;  "  your  vow  is  the  same  as 
accomplished." 

"No,  mother ;  not  for  twenty  years  ; "  Hiram  said  sadly. 

"  But  you  will  speak  with  Alice?" 

"  Yes,  mother;  in  the  morning." 

Then  Mrs.  Wolfe  left  him,  and  soon  afterward  Herbert 
strode  into  the  room. 

"Well,  Hiram  ?  "  was  his  greeting. 

"Well,  Herbert,"  returned  Hiram;  "you  may  give  me 
back  the  paper  you  are  keeping  for  me,  if  you  please." 

"To  be  sacrificed?" 

"Yes." 

"That  is  good;"  said  Herbert,  surrendering  the  paper. 
"You  don't  know  why  I  wanted  it,  so  I  will  tell  you  :  A 
scrap  of  paper,  anything  in  the  shape  of  a  document,  will 
fortify  a  man's  courage,  either  for  good  or  for  evil.  Yours 
is  a  sort  of  mental  thumb-screw,  and  I  wished  to  deprive 
you  of  its  moral  support.  See  how  cruel  and  crafty  I  am  I 
But  isn't  it  so  ?  I  don't  know  how  it  would  apply  to  woman- 
kind," petulantly  ;  "  I  don't  know  anything  about  them,  nor 
do  I  wish  to  know." 

"  But  your  sister  ?  "  prompted  Hiram  reproachfully. 

"  My  sister  is  an  exception  ;  she  is  an  angel." 

Hiram  asked  for  a  taper  and  was  about  to  destroy  the  paper, 
when  he  checked  himself,  and  said  abniytly,  "  I  can't  do  it, 
Herbert ;  keep  it  for  me ;  keep  it  for  my  sake,  when  I  am 
gone." 

"I will  do  so,  my  dear  friend,  for  its  work  is  done.     So 


I 


256 


Hiram's  Oath. 


you  are  tired  of  playing  the  hero,  eh  ?    You  will  make  a 
clean  breast  of  it  to  my  sister  ? ' ' 

"  Yes  ;  and  here  and  now  I  ask  you  to  our  wedding,  twenty 
years  hence. ' ' 

"That  is  right;  I  will  come.  Hum,  yes;  a  wedding! 
And  so,  in  twenty  years,  the  days  of  your  heroship  will  be 
fulfilled." 

"  Don't  add  to  my  burden,  Herbert !  " 

"Forgive  me,  Hiram;  I  am  wrong.  Now  for  my  idea. 
Will  you  tolerate  my  company  on  your  ranch,  for  twenty 
years  ? ' ' 

"  Herbert !  Will  you  come  with  me  ?"  cried  Hiram,  with 
feverish  delight.     "  Do  you  mean  it  ?  " 

' '  Unless  you  expressly  forbid  it,  I  am  determined  to  share 
your  adventures,  your  privations,  your  solitude,  and  —  your 
warhorse ! " 

"Oh,  Herbert !     How  good  you  are  !  " 

"Fudge!  I'm  a  wretch!  a  stony-hearted  wretch!  Hi- 
ram, do  you  know,  .sometimes  I  envy  the  world  its  happiness  ; 
sometimes  when  I  see  misery  I  rejoice  in  it.  I  —  I  wish 
Uncle  Sam  would  go  to  war  ;  I  should  revel  in  the  carnage 
and  havoc.  But  I'll  take  it  out  in  spilling  the  life-blood  of 
the  buffalo.  —  And  so  your  love-affair  will  turn  out  happily, 
after  all ;  and  you  will  marry  the  woman  of  your  heart ;  and 
you  and  she  will  grow  old,  and  bald,  ind  wrinkled,  and 
childish,  together.  Hiram,  sometimes  I  like  to  see  things  go 
to  pieces  ;  I  wish  somebody  would  write  a  novel  and  murder 
every  soul  in  it !  Come,  when  you  and  I  live  together  on  the 
ranch,  I'll  write  one  myself;  and  I'll  be  m>  own  hero-in- 
chief!" 

"  Don't  talk  that  way,  Herbert ;  it  isn't  Chrisrian-'like. " 
"  God  help  me  ;  I  know  it  isn't,"  Herbert  replied  sadly. 
"  Herbert,  can  nothing  console  you  ?     Wouldn't  it  do  you 


pill  make  a 

lirig,  twenty 

a  wedding ! 
ship  will  be 


or  my  idea. 
,  for  twenty 

Hiram,  with 

ned  to  share 
and  —  your 


retch !  Hi- 
s  happiness ; 
I  —  I  wish 
the  carnage 
life-blood  of 
}ut  happily, 
r  heart ;  and 
inkled,  and 
ee  things  go 
and  murder 
ether  on  the 
iwn  hero-in- 

tian-iike." 
plied  sadly. 
I't  it  do  you 


Hiram's  Oath. 


257 


good  to  follow  the  prescription  the  doctor  made  out  for  me 
for  low  spirits  ?    We  will,  on  the  ran — ." 

"  '  Console  ? '  "  broke  in  Herbert,  in  the  old,  bitter  tone. 
"  Why  do  you  say  that  to  me  ?  Has  any  one  been  babbling 
my  affairs  ?  '  Console  ! '  If  you  should  see  a  man  being 
tortured  to  death  by  Indian  braves,  would  you  step  up  to 
him  and  say,  'Can  nothing  console  you,  sir?    Wouldn't  a 

prescription  from  Dr. be  a  good  thing  for  your  low 

spirits  ? ' ' 

Whistling  a  lively  Negro  melody,  as  if  he  were  as  light  of 
heart  as  a  schoolboy,  Herbert  sauntered  out  of  the  room. 

The  next  morning  Hiram  gave  Alice  the  history  of  the 
family  curse,  and  then  told  her  what  the  great  physician  had 
said. 

'  'Alice, ' '  he  said,  ' '  would  it  be  asking  too  much  if  i  should 
ask  j'ou  to  wait  for  me  ?  Could  you  wait  twenty  years  ? 
But  do  you  love  me,  Alice  ?    Will  you  be  my  wife  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Hiram  ;  I  love  you;  "  Alice  said  falteringly,  her  face 
hidden. 

'  'And  will  you  be  my  wife  ?  Will  you  wait  for  me  twenty 
years?" 

"  Yes,"  faintly,  but  firmly, 

"Oh,  Alice  !  Alice  !  You  will  indeed  be  my  guardian 
angel !  " 

"  It  is  a  long  time,  Hiram  ;  but  I  will  wait." 

"Ob,  Alice  !  my  darling  !  Come  to  me,  that  I  may  give 
you  a  kiss  — just  one  !  "  Then  passionately:  "Alice  !  would 
you  marry  me  as  soon  as  I  get  well  ?  to-day  ?  now  ? ' ' 

"  Yes,  Hiram,"  said  Alice  slowly. 

"  Heaven  forgive  me,  Alice.  If  you  can  wait,  I  can.  You 
will  be  here  all  alone ;  while  I  shall  be  hard  at  work,  or 
scouring  the  plains  on  my  charger.  It  will  be  harder,  much 
harder,  and  longer,  for  you  than  for  me. ' ' 


258 


Hiram's  Oath. 


"  But  you  will  be  lonely,  too,  Hiram." 

"No,  Alice;  Herbert  is  going  with  me.  Isn't  that 
good  ? ' ' 

"  Oh,  I'mso  glad  —  for  yoursake.and  for  his,  too.  But," 
sadly,  ' '  I  shall  miss  him  so  much. ' ' 

"  I  did  not  think  of  that,  Alice  ;  I  will  persuade  him  not 
to  go." 

' '  No,  no  !  I  did  not  mean  that  !  Besides,  we  shall  see 
one  another  occasionally;  the  doctor  did  not  forbid  thai  — 
did  he,  Hiram  ? ' ' 

"  No,  Alice  ;  that  pleasure  is  not  denied  us." 

"  Herbert  will  be  good  company,  Hiram,  when  you  get  ac- 
customed to  his  ways.  You  won't  fret  about  me,  Hiram  ;  I 
shall  be  all  right.  And  don't  think  the  time  long,  either. 
We  shall  each  of  us  have  employment  for  our  minds  and 
hands,  and  we  will  correspond  regularly.  You  will  try  to 
wait  patiently,  won't  you,  Hiram  ?" 

' '  Yes,  dear  Alice  ;  and  to  prove  worthier  of  your  love. ' ' 

"A  life  on  the  plains  may  do  you  both  a  great  deal  of 
good.  I  will  try  not  to  be  uneasy  about  you,  but  you  must 
promise  me  not  to  run  into  danger,  of  any  kind.  Herbert  is 
so  adventurous  that  he  would  storm  an  Indian  camp,  alone. ' ' 

"  I  promise  you,  Alice.  Do  you  think  Herbert  will  ever 
get  over  his  disappointment  ?  — his  grief? 

"I  am  afraid  not.  But  he  is  not  so  bitter  as  he  was  three 
years  ago. ' ' 

' '  How  was  he  the  first  year  ? ' ' 

' '  We  did  not  see  him  for  a  full  year  after  that  fatal  day. 
Some  of  his  friends  persuaded  him  to  go  off  to  Russia  with 
them,  and  from  that  country  he  roamed  over  half  Europe. 
When  he  came  back,  Hiram,  I  did  not  know  him." 

' '  He  was  so  altered  ?  " 


Isn't  that 

oo.     But," 

ide  him  not 

■e  shall  see 
bid  that  — 


you  get  ac- 
,  Hiram  ;  I 
ong,  either, 
minds  and 
will  try  to 

itr  love. ' ' 
reat  deal  of 
t  you  must 
Herbert  is 
np,  alone." 
rt  will  ever 

e  was  three 


t  fatal  day. 
R.ussia  with 
alf  Europe. 


Hiram's  Oath. 


259 


"  Ves.  'Am  I  so  woebegone  a  ghost,'  he  said,  '  that  no 
one  knows  me  ? '  " 

"  But  sometimes  he  seems  quite  cheetlnl  I  heard  him 
whistling  0  lively  air  yesterday,  as  jauntily  as  a  young  sailor. 

"  Yes,  Hiram  ;  but  I  often  think  he  does  that  to  keep  from 
breaking  down  entirely. ' ' 

"  He  must  have  been  a  noble  fellow  once." 

"  He  was,  Hiram  ;  he  was  the  best  of  brothers  ;  so  clever, 
good-humored,  witty,  and  good.  Now  he  is  cynical,  and  — 
and  at  times  a  little  inclined  to  be  ill-natured,  I  am  afraid 
you  must  think." 

"  No,  Alice  ;  he  is  the  only  man  I  could  ever  think  of  as 
a  brother.  In  truth,  he  seems  as  near  to  me  as  if  he  were 
already  mj'  brother." 

Hiram  improved  rapidly  from  that  day.  He  schooled  him- 
.self  to  wait  patiently  —  even  to  look  forward  tranquilly  till 
the  years  of  his  probation  should  be  fulfilled. 

One  day  Herbert  came  to  him,  and  said  :  "  Old  fellow,  did 
it  never  occur  to  you  that  Alice  ought  to  have  an  engage- 
ment rin;.,^  ?  You  used  to  bind  yourself  with  grim  resolu- 
tions, and  oaths,  and  such  things,  and  yet  you  expect  Alice 
to  keep  on  being  engaged  to  you  for  twenty  ye?rs  or  so,  with- 
out even  a  betrothal  ring  !  You  don't  know  much  about 
womankind,  Hiram." 

"  You  ^.re  right,  Herbf  it ;  I'll  try  and  get  out  to  get  one 
to-day.  ' 

"  No,  you  won't !  Do  you  see  this?  "  displaying  a  ring- 
box.  "  Or  are  you  so  unsophisticated  that  you  take  it  for 
a  Roman  relic?  " 

' '  Herbert !  Hcjw  good  you  are  ! "  was  all  Hiram  could 
say. 

"  Enough  of  that ;  it  is  growing  monotonous." 


"% 


26o 


Hiram's  Oath. 


Hiram  opened  the  box  and  found  a  beautiful  ring,  set  with 
two  brilliants  that  dazzled  his  eyes. 

The  time  came  when  Hiram  and  Alice  must  part.  It  was 
a  sad  moment,  but  each  looked  forward  hopefully  to  the  day 
when  they  .should  meet  to  part  no  more  till  Death  should 
part  them  for  a  season  in  old  age. 

"  I  shall  be  an  old  woman  to  be  a  bride,  Hiram,"  said 
Alice,  smiling  through  her  tears.  "An  old  woman  —forty 
years  old  !  Think  of  that  !  Wrinkled,  perhaps,  and 
gray  !  " 

"  But  the  noblest  of  all  noblewomen,  Alice,  and  the  best." 

"  Good-bye,  Alice,"  said  Herbert.  "  Keep  a  brav?  heart, 
my  sister,  and  we  sLali  weather  the  storms  of  twenty  years. 
I  am  interested  in  his  case  ;  he  is  a  noble  fellow.  I  am  going 
to  oversee  everything,  and  shall  negotiate  for  all  our  supplies, 
and  manage  affairs  generally,  so  that  he  shall  have  nothing 
to  worry  him.  I  mean  to  secure  a  medicine  chest,  and  be 
medjaae-man  to  the  camp.  So,  don't  borrow  trouble,  Alice, 
for  I  shall  care  for  him  as  I  would  for  a  baby  —  I  mean,  for 
a  puppy." 

"  Dear  Herbert,"  said  Alice,  "  it  is  so  good  of  you  !  You 
are  going  on  purpose  to  take  care  of  him." 

"  I  am  going  for  my  health,"  said  Herbert  shortly. 

"  He  is  so  good  a  man  — . ' ' 

"  He  is  worthy  of  you,  Alice  ;  that  is  all.  Yes,  he  is  a 
good  fellow.  Good-bye,  dear  sister  ;  I  will  be  my  brother's 
keeper.  Yes,  poor  soul,  he  needs  some  one  to  look  after  him, 
or  he  would  be  binding  himself  with  some  of  his  horrible 
'  resolutions '  not  to  neglect  his  work,  or  not  to  read  any 
books,  or  not  to  write  —  hum  !     Good-bye  !" 


ring,  set  with 

part.  It  was 
lly  to  the  day 
Death  should 

Hiram,"  said 
Oman  —  forty 
jerhaps,    and 

,nd  the  best." 
I  brav^  heart, 
wenty  years. 
I  am  going 
our  supplies, 
have  nothing 
:hest,  and  be 
rouble,  Alice, 
—  I  mean,  for 

jf  you  !    You 

hortly. 

Yes,  he  is  a 
my  brother's 
)ok  after  him, 
"  his  horrible 

to  read  any 


Hiram's  Oath. 


Chapter  IV. 


261 


It  was  in  ante-Pacific  railway  days,  and  the  journey  to 
far-off  Texas  was  a  great  undertaking.  Hiram  suggested  that 
they  should  travel  the  entire  distance  on  horseback,  but  Her- 
bert promptly  vetoed  that,  as  too  fatiguing.  Finally  it  was 
decided  to  go  by  rail  to  the  Ohio,  thence  down  that  river 
and  the  Mississippi  to  Memphis,  and  thence  across  the  plains 
by  caravan  train,  or  on  horseback  by  easy  stages,  to  Austin. 
All  necessary  supplies,  of  course,  would  be  procured  at 
Memphis. 

At  that  period  the  old  B.  and  O.  was  completed  beyond 
Cumberland  almost  to  Wheeling.  This  route  they  took, 
staging  it  over  the  "  gap  "  to  the  Ohio.  Their  journey  was 
delightful,  but  uneventful,  till  Memphis  was  reached,  whence, 
after  a  week's  halt,  they  leisurely  continued  on  their  way  on 
horseback,  with  a  retinue  of  pack-horses  and  slaves  —  or 
rather,  as  Hiram  afterwards  discovered,  manumitted  blacks, 
liberally  paid  by  Herbert.  The  long  ride  across  the  plains, 
though  wearisome,  was  bracing  and  exciting,  and  they  en- 
joyed it  so  much  that  Hiram  began  to  feel  very  hopeful. 

"  The  years  will  glide  away  peacefully  and  happily  for  us,'* 
he  .said  ;   "  but  poor  Alice  !  " 

"  He  mustn't  fret,  poor  fellow,  even  about  Alice,"  thought 
Herbert.  "Hiram,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  .suppcse  is  in 
those  packs  in  front  of  me  ? ' ' 

"Powder?" 

"  You  guess  as  wildly  as  a  parrot,  Hiram,  and  that  is  the 
worst  guesser  at  all.  The  right  one  i,«  full  of  comedies,  for 
you ;  and  the  other  is  full  of  tragedies,  for  me." 

"  There  you  are  again,  Herbert  !  " 

"  Well,  I  am  going  to  refbrni  ;    I  am  going  to  take  your 


if'ii 


a63 


Hiram's  Oath. 


medicine  with  you.  When  we  feel  low-spirited  we'll  both 
go  coursing  over  the  country  full  chase,  eh,  Hiram  ?  Marry  ! 
as  Shakespeare  sometimes  says,  marry  !  we'll  dose  ourselves 
to  death.  Our  mounts  now  are  only  gauls,  as  the  Germans 
put  it." 

"  Herbert,  why  should  you  not  confide  in  me?  You  are 
helping  me  to  bear  my  burdens ;  why  should  I  not  help  you  ? 
Some  cruel  grief  is  preying  on  your  mind,  Herbert ;  why 
should  we  not  sympathize  together  ?  " 

"  Enough  of  that !  "  said  Herbert  severely.  "  I  always 
suspected  somebody  had  meddled  in  my  affairs.  Hiram,  did 
you  ever  see  me  in  a  rage  ?  ' ' 

"  No,  Herbert ;  you  have  too  much  self-command." 

After  a  long  interval  Herbert  said  slowly :  "  Hiram,  I  will 
unbosom  myself  to  you  ;  I  will  unfold  the  story  of  my  woes  ; 
I  will  lay  bare  the  tragedy  of  my  life." 

Hiram  listened  intently  while  Herbert  told  the  story  of  his 
love.  He  did  not  spare  himself  in  the  rehearsal,  but  .seemed 
rather  to  take  a  savage  delight  in  giving  every  torturing 
detail  of  the  tragedy,  as  he  aptly  termed  it. 

"  Now,"  he  said  when  he  had  finished,  "do  you  wonder 
that  I  am  a  wreck  ?  Do  you  wonder  that  I  hate  myself  and 
•everybody  else  ?  Do  you  wonder  that  I  am  an  outcast, 
hating  the  very  word  '  happiness, '  which  to  me  is  so  bitter  a 
mockery  ?  ' ' 

"You  have  suffered,  Herbert,  as  few  men  have  suffered. 
I  do  not  wonder  that  you  laughed  at  my  suffering,  as  after 
twenty  years  it  would  be  over,  while  yours  would  never  be 
over.  * ' 

"Just  so  ;  you  have  something  to  live  for,  to  look  forward 

to;  I  haven't." 

"  But  has  nothing  blunted  the  edge  of  your  grief  ?  " 
"Don't  be  so  metaphorical.     No,  nothing;  the  edge  of 


we'll  both 
n  ?  Marry ! 
se  ourselves 
be  Germans 

?  You  are 
jt  help  you  ? 
rbert ;   why 

"  I  always 
Hiram,  did 

land." 

liram,  I  will 
of  my  woes ; 

;  story  of  his 
,  but  seemed 
ry  torturing 

you  wonder 

;  myself  and 

an  outcast, 

is  so  bitter  a 

ive  suffered, 
■ing,  as  after 
uld  never  be 

look  forward 

;rief?"     ■ 
the  edge  of 


Hiram's  Oath. 


263 


m>-  grief  is  still  so  keen  that  it  cuts  to  my  heart's  core,  as  it 
did  at  first.  Constancy,  Hiram,  is  in  our  family.  My  parents 
were  engaged  for  ten  years  before  their  marriage,  and  Alice's 
loyalty  to  you  will  never  waver.  Can  you  guarantee  your- 
self to  be  as  constant  ?  ' ' 

"Herbert!  How  can  you  question  it?"  asked  Hiram 
angrily. 

"  I  don't.  I  have  seen  greater  constancy  in  mankind  than 
in  womankind,  and  I  know  your  heart,  Hiram.  But  unfaith- 
fulness on  your  part  would  kill  my  sister,  and  if  I  thought 
you  capable  of  it  I  would  shoot  you,  as  mercilessly  as  I  would 
any  other  traitor.     Aren't  you  afraid  ?   "  laughingly. 

"You  are  a  modern  Horatius.  No,  I  am  not  afraid  that 
you  will  ever  shoot  me,  Herbert.  If  it  came  to  that,  I  would 
.shoot  my,self  But  wasn't  your  grief  harder  to  bear  at 
first?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  was  away,  in  Europe,  somewhere,  or 
everywhere,  ranging  about  like  a  madman.  I  suflFered  least 
then,  Hiram,  for  I  was  not  conscious  of  my  sufferings. 
Would  you  believe  it  ?  I  know  scarcely  anything  of  what  I 
did.  But  I  was  awakened  one  day,  in  Paris.  It  was  a  rude 
awakening.  I  saw  her  and  the  Jew,  looking  as  happy  and 
innocent  as  twin  statues  of  Charity." 

"  That  nut.st  have  been  hard." 

"Yes,  rather ;  it  made  me  what  I  am." 

"  Was  she  so  beautiful  ?  " 

"Don't  think  me  a  fool,  Hiram— at  least,  if  you  think  so, 
don't  say  it.  I  trust  to  your  honor.  Here,  see  for  your- 
self," handing  Hiram  a  worn  picture-case.  "But,  yes;  I 
a^'jafool;  an  ass;  a  noodle." 

Hiram  opened  the  picture-case.  ' '  And  this  was  the  woman 
you  loved  ?  " 

"Put  your  sentence  into  the  present  tense  throughout," 


264 


Hirtvn's  Oath. 


bitterly.     "Well,"  roughly,  taking  the  picture,  "what  do 
you  say  ?  " 

"She  is  a  master-piece  of  i.atine,  Herl>ert." 

"  Her  treachery  so  unmanned  me  that  I  have  never  been 
fit  for  anything  since,  and  jiever  expect  to  Iv  Now,  accord- 
ing to  romance,  she  and  the  Jew  should  have  come  to  beggary 
in  six  monti:".  Then  she  should  have  written  an  appeal  to 
me,  and  I  should  have  —  hum  !  Marry,  I  abominate  romance  ! 
Then  there  is  another  way  for  the  romancers  to  figure  it  out, 
and  happify  me,  in  spite  of  myself.  They  should  have  a 
daughter,  the  imagt  of  her  mother,  and  I  should  marry  her, 
fortune  and  all !  Til  organize  a  crusade  against  romancers, 
I  swear  I  will,  and  kill  them  off  with  their  own  absurd  the- 
ories." 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  from  them  ?  Have  they  a  daugh- 
ter ?  " 

"Don't,  Hiram!  Don't!  I've  said  too  much;  I  must 
cool  down.  '  Then  calmly,  "  What  did  you  ask  ?  No,  I've 
never  heard  anything  about  them.  But  they  are  all  right, 
never  fear  !  Pshaw  !  Perhaps  I  wouldn't  marry  her,  were 
she  a  widow  and  had  I  the  chance  ! ' ' 

"  Herbert,  it  is  strange  that  it  did  not  embitter  you  against 
all  lovers.  Yet  you  have  worked  hard  for  your  sister  and 
me,  and  you  have  removed  the  shadow  of  the  curse  from 
me. 

' '  Those  are  the  most  sensible  remarks  you  have  made, 
Hiram.  And  you  are  right ;  it  did  embitter  me  ;  it  incensed 
me,  almost  beyond  endurance,  to  hear  anything  about  love 
or  lovers.  But  in  my  sister's  case  it  was  different.  When  I 
returned  from  Europe,  the  most  wretched  mortal  on  earth, 
my  sister  was  everything  to  me.  She  was  so  kind,- so  com- 
passionate, so  unobtrusive.  She  put  up  with  all  my  vagaries 
and  perversities,  and  never  vexed  me.     In  short,  if  it  had 


0 
a 

b 
w 
ii 
tl 
a 

s] 
b 

S( 


Hiram's  Oath. 


265 


,  "  what  do 


never  been 
[ow,  accord - 
;  to  beggary 
ti  appeal  to 
,te  romance ! 
igure  it  out, 
3uld  have  a 
marry  her, 
romancers, 
absurd  the- 

ey  a  daugh- 

,ch  ;  I  must 

?     No,  I've 

ire  all  right, 

ry  her,  were 

you  against 

ir  sister  and 

curse  from 

have  made, 
;  it  incensed 
I  about  love 
It.  When  I 
tal  on  earth, 
;ind,so  com- 
niy  vagaries 
)rt,  if  it  had 


not  been  for  my  sister,  I  should  now  be  a  grinning  lunatic 
in  some  private  asylum.  I  did  not  notice  for  some  time 
how  good  she  was  to  me;  but  when  I  did  Jiotice  it  I  swore 
that  I  would  work  for  her  happiness,  if  the  occasion  should 
ever  come.  I  saw  that  a  love-affair  with  her  must  be  a  life- 
affair,  as  with  me.  The  occasion  did  come,  Hiram,  and  you 
know  the  rest.     I  did  my  duty,  and  —  I  feel  better  for  it." 

' '  You  have  done  enough  to  secure  your  happiness  hereafter, 
my  more  than  brother." 

"  And  yet  I  am  unkind  to  her,  my  sister." 

' '  In  what  way  ?  " 

"I  am  so  rough.  God  kn<  I  regret  my  harshness 
towards  her.  My  mother  ami  ^r  find  traces  of  my  tears, 
poor  souls,  and  they  think  I  cry  myself  to  sleep  for  the  woman 
I  love,  when  it  is  often  because  of  my  brutality  at  home. 
Never  mind  ;  now  that  I  am  away  from  home,  I  shall  rival 
you  in  writing  kind  and  encouraging  letters  to  Alice.  I  can 
write  a  kind  letter,  Hiram,  though  perhaps  you  can  not  be- 
lieve it. 

"  I  can  believe  you  might  be  the  kindest  of  men." 

"  Pshaw  !  I  am  used  to  my  misery  now.  In  facfc,  in  a  mild 
way,  I  enjoy  my  misery  and  my  chronic  peevishness." 

Hiram  and  Herbert  established  themselves  on  a  fine  ranch 
on  the  Colorado  River  in  Texas,  north  of  the  State  capital, 
at  that  time  a  town  of  less  than  4,000  inhabitants.  Deer, 
buffaloes,  and  wild  horses  were  all  about  them,  and  Indians 
were  near  enough  to  lend  a  spice  of  danger  to  their  surround- 
ings. They  expected  to  occupy  their  new  quarters  for  nearly 
the  entire  period  of  twenty  years,  and  they  made  themselves 
as  comfortable  and  their  home  as  pleasant  as  if  they  would 
spend  a  life-time  there.  Austin  was  their  post-office  and 
base,  and  Herbert  undertook  the  management  of  everything, 
so  that  Hiram  had  absolutely  no  cares  whatever. 


a66 


Hiram' $  Oatb. 


Each  one  procured  a  spirited  horse,  to  which  Herl)ert  gave 
fantastic  and  sonorous  names,  and  whenever  Hiram  seemed 
at  all  depressed  the  horses  were  promptly  called  up  and 
saddled.  Then  together  they  galloped  over  the  country, 
sometimes  taking  a  run  of  fifty  miles.  The  old  doctor  was 
right;  a  wild  ;.;'\llop  on  his  mettlesome  .steed  never  failed  to 
exhilarate  Hiram's  spirits. 

They  prospered  as  ranchers,  but  did  not  devote  all  their 
energies  to  money-making.  They  had  come  for  no  such 
purpose,  and  were  not  disposed  to  neglect  health  or  recreo- 
tion  for  it.  Herbert  read  his  tragedies,  and  wrote  long  letters 
to  Alice ;  Hiram  read  comedies,  tragedies,  magazines,  any- 
thing readable,  and  also  wrote  long  letters  to  Alice.  I  [<;rbert 
was  right ;  they  vied  with  each  other  in  writing  IovIujl;  and 
cheering  letlcrs.  Besides  this,  Herbert  frequently  wrote  to 
the  old  doctor  and  to  Mrs.  Wolfe  about  the  "patient,"  as  h ; 
styled  Hiram.  But  they  were  almost  i,8oo  miles  from  home, 
and  it  took  time  for  letters  to  reach  their  destination. 

So  they  lived,  a  sort  of  Robinson  Crusoe  life,  which  was 
good  for  both.  Each  one  enjoyed  himself,  and  took  kindly 
to  his  pursuits.  Hiram  did  not  complain,  or  get  low-spirited  ; 
j!;ti  I  even  Herbert  seemed  to  grow  rational. 

This  life  had  continued  about  a  year,  when  one  day  Her- 
bert said  resolutely  :  "  Hiram,  the  books  I  read  when  I  was 
a  boy  harped  incessantly  about  a  man's  having  a  purpose  in 
life.  That  was  good,  though  it  never  did  me  any  good.  But 
now  I  am  going  to  have  one  ;  I  am  going  to  coin  money  ;  I 
am  going  to  be  a  miser." 

"What  for?" 

"Oh,  you'll  see.  Perhaps  I  am  going  to  pension  the  man 
who  will  be  blood-thirsty  enough  to  write  a  novel  to  my 

taste." 

' '  But  how  are  you  going  to  make  the  money  ?  ' ' 


k. 


"j* 


'h  Herliert  gave 
Hiram  seemed 
called   up  and 

er  the  country, 
old  doctor  was 

d  never  failed  to 

devote  all  their 
nie  for  no  such 
health  or  recrea- 
ivrote  long  letters 

magazines,  any- 
5  Alice.  Herbert 
riling  loving;  and 
quently  wrote  to 

"patient,"  as  ir.^ 
1  miles  from  home, 
istiiiiition. 
e  life,  which  was 

and  took  kindly 
r  get  low-spirited ; 

hen  one  day  Her- 
read  when  I  was 
•ving  a  purpose  in 
vte  any  good.  But 
to  coin  money  ;  I 


;o  pension  the  man 
te  a  novel  to  my 

iioney  ? ' ' 


\     i 


■:*      i'v 


Wv 


jB|jj!»»JtK,aJ.WiiUt.MA^*<jatJ.WWWllgi,»^^^ 


^ 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


13.0     ^^^"        H^IH 

:^  us.  12.0 


E 


11.25 


■HMU 


PhDlQgra{iiic 

Sdsices 

Corporalion 


(i'- 


23  WBT  MAIN  STRliT 

WIBSTIR,N.Y.  I4SM 

(716)  •72-4503 


.■:^?'g5f«!y*ae**w?=*'S 


«• 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


C«-..n  .™«.u..  ..r  H<...H...  «ior.,«.,«.MC...„.  /  .o..Hu.  c.™-..n  d.  ™.c,.r.p«-uc«.n.  H.«o,.,u« 


a? 


Hiram's  Oath, 

"On  this  ranch.  I  am  going  to  work  in  earnest  and  not 
watch  the  overseer  smoke,  and  look  on,  and  talk  m  his 
ingenuous  way.  any  longer.  Or  I  can  speculate  m  real  estate 
in  Austin;  or  dabble  in  medicine  -  patent  medicine,  for 
instance.-or  write  poetry  that  would  brand  me  as  a  mad- 
man.     Hiram,  you  have  something  to  live  for  and  work  for, 

and  I  mean  to  have,  too." 

Long  afterwards,  when  Hiram  found  that  Alice,  witha  party 
of  friends,  was  about  to  travel  in  Europe  he  leamt  ^hat 
Herbert  had  supplied  her  with  the  means  to  do  sa  She 
needs  change  and  amusement  as  much  as  we  do.  Hiram,  he 
said  deprecatingly.      "You  must  hoard  for    an    heir;    1 

mustn't." 

"  Herbert,  you  are  a  noble  fellow  ! 

"No-  I  wanted  to  learn  practical  farming,  and  I  was  too 
lazy  to  learn  it  without  an  incentive  to  work.     Poor  Ahce 
She  would  never  have  thought  of  going  off  to  see  the  sights 
of  Europe,  if  some  one  hadn't  proposed  the  idea  to  her. 

Years  r;iled  by,  and  still  Hiram  and  Herbert  lived  their 
lonely  life  on  the  ranch,  took  their  long  rides,  and  wrote  lov- 
ing letters  to  Alice.  Christmas  they  ^'^^^^fy/^'''^ 
Maryland,  and  twice  Alice  came  to  spend  a  few  days  with 
them  on  their  plantation. 

The  air  was  filled  with  rumors  of  war;  the  nation  was 
trembling  on  the  verge  of  rebellion. 

"  Hiram,  I  was  bom  to  be  a  soldier,  even  though  I  fall  in 
the  first  battle.    The  spirit  of  fighting  was  strong  in  me. 
when  I  was  only  a  hobbledehoy.     We  will  not  part  Hiram 
(and  you  shall  not  go  to  war,  do  you  hear?)  but  I  can  aid 
the  cause  of  right  out  of  my  private  means,  and  now  and 
then  see  and  smell  the  smoke  of  War." 
"AsaSouthemer—"  began  Hiram. 
"  As  a  Southerner,  I  have  no  sympathy  with  the  North  ; 


1 


268  Hiram's  Oath. 

but,"  resolutely,  -ashman,  I  r^iH  sland  by  i/.  blacks  tkrous^h 

""^A^d  yt'your  father  is  a  slave-holder,  and  we  have  blacks 

^^'Yofknow  my  contempt  for  quack  politics ;  you  know 
my  hatred  oLlave'ry  ;  you  know  my  dogged  resolution  wben 
lit  about  doing  a  thing.  We  have  blacks  on  our  ranch  it 
is^ue  •  but  they  are  not  slaves,  if  laborers'  wages  make  free 
ir 'Hiram.  Thave  long  groped,  as  aj>lind  man,  for^a 
purpose  in  life,  and  I  have  found  it  now.  thank  God  !  Come, 
let  lis  write  to  Alice  about  it."  ,    ,  t.     ^ 

''.  Yes  Herbert ;  for  I  am  with  you.  heart  and  sou  I  have 
suspected  this  about  our  blacks;  but."  laughmgly,  Idont 
know  what  other  secrets  you  are  keepmg  from  m^ 

The  years  rolled  on;  the  war  was  past.  Hiram  ana 
nJrSrt  were  forced  to  give  up  their  property  m  Texas,  and 
^r^^rflle  for  life- whin  their  horsemanship  stood  them  in 
J^A  stead.  But  they  were  still  alive  and  well  and  Herbert 
S  their  misfortunes  easily,  though  ^or.a  time  he  f^^^^^^^ 
Zt  if  anything  might  unsettle  Hiram's  mind,  their  reverses 
Ind  troubles  would.  Groundless  fear.  So  long  as  Hiram 
h"d  rce'rio'e.  he  could  smile  at  fickle  fortune,  equally 

"  Thf  war'ffected  a  great  change  for  the  better  in  Herbert^ 
Though  still  outwardly  the  same  restless,  cynical  bemg,  he 
had  lost  much  of  his  heartache  in  the  smoke  of  war.  He 
had  oughUn  many  battles,  with  the  indomitable  courage  of 
a  hero  He  had  risen,  too,  to  the  rank  of  major-a  distinc- 
tion which  he  ignored,  t,..  ^^coid     "We 

"  I  advanced  the  cause  ;  that  is  enough  ;  he  said  We 
have  nothing  more  to  fight  about,  and  I  never  want  to  see 
♦lie  rountrv  plunged  in  another  war. 

The  twenty  years  were  all  told  but  one.     Hiram's  eager- 


"^Ts 


Hiram's  Oath. 


369 


:ks  through 

lave  blacks 

you  know 
ution  when 
ur  ranch,  it 
s  make  free 
man,  for  a 
^od!  Come, 

soul.  I  have 
ly,  "I don't 

ae." 

Hiram  and 
I  Texas,  and 
tood  them  in 
and  Herbert 
me  he  feared 
:heir  reverses 
ng  as  Hiram 
Lune,  equally 

;r  in  Herbert, 
ical  being,  he 
;  of  war.     He 
ble  courage  of 
ar — a  distinc- 

lesaid.    "We 
er  want  to  see 

iiram's  eager- 


„.ss  to  return  to  Maryland  and  claim  hi,  brif;  «»  l"""^  ■ 

have  Jn'e verything  to  me  :  you  and  Alice ;  wife,  cbddren 
e«rything.    I  can  never  leave  you,  tor  .t  w™'*  "=«'*' 
aSg  my  life-blood.    You  will  reserve  a  nook  under  your 
^!.L  for  me  -  won't  you.  Hiram  ?  •   pleadmgly. 

' '  Herbert '  vou  shall  never  leave  us  ! 
Itw:^renLthofDecember,andthetwomen.no^^^^^^^^^^ 

young,  but  middle-aged,  were  loungmg  about  the  streets  o 
Clrancisco     In  just  six  months'  time  the  engagement 
^Tadeneady  twenty  years  before  was  to  be  consummated  by 

'  H^in  and  Hiram  were  in  good  spirits,  for  everything 
was  well  with  them.  They  were  talking,  as  they  had  been 
Talking  for  the  last  twenty  years,  about  the  re-umo«  that 
was  to  take  place  in  the  June  of  1872. 

..  Time  goes  fast,  after  all,  Hiram  ;  s»x  months  wi  whtz 
past  before  we  know  it.  It  has  been  about  the  b^t  love 
test  I  ever  heard  of.  I  have  had  no  occasion  to  «boot  you^ 
Ih  You  and  Alice  can  stand  fire  after  this  ;  tb-e  w.U  be 
no  danger  that  I  shall  ever  pick  up  a  paper  and  find  your 
names  figuring  in  a  list  of  divorce  cases 

As  Herbert  spoke  he  lazily  turned  mto  a  "e^^f  *"'' .^"^ 
bought  a  newspaper  for  theday.     His  eyes  caught  a  headmg 

^'"AlnoC^ut't^L  !    Wreckofthesteamer/'...^. 
andtsl  of  half  her  passengers.     Details  of  the  catastrophe. 

^  Aiitwas  again  in  Europe,  and  this  was  the  steamer  in 
whicrsh'wassailingon  the  Mediterranean,  before  she  should 

come  home  for  the  last  time.  u„„,^ 

A  gUmmer  of  hope  that  Alice  might  not  have  been  on  board. 


270 


Hiram's  Oath. 


or  that  she  mig--  have  escaped .  penetrated  to  Herbert' sbra^^ 
But,  no  !    There  was  her  name  among  the  names  of  those 

who  had  perished. 

All  sense  forsook  him  ;  he  sank  down  helpless.  The  paper 
slipped  from  his  nerveless  hand,  and  Hiram  cried  aloud  for 
help  Then,  with  a  quick  prescience  that  it  was  something 
Herbert  had  seen  in  the  paper,  he  took  it  up. 

"  Poor  fellow  !  Perhaps  it  was  something  about  the  woman 

who  has  made  his  life ."  „^  oil 

Hiram  said  no  more,  for  he  had  taken  in  at  a  glance  all 

that  Herbert  had  seen. 


Chapter  V. 
IT  was  two  days  later.    Hiram  was  delirious  in  the  hospital 
off  Market-street ;  Herbert  had  so  far  recovered  as  to  be  able 
to  watch  by  him,  but  his  thoughts  were  too  chaotic  to  be 

chronicled.  .  tt^^u^^ 

A  messenger-boy  brought  in  a  telegram  for  one  Herbert 
J.  Sinclair.  It  was  only  because  the  newspapers  had  pub- 
lished among  the  city  items  that  two  robust  men,  Smclaxr 
and  Wolfe,  had  swooned  away  on  reading  an  account  of  the 
disaster  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  been  taken  to  one  of  the 
hospitals,  that  the  operator,  from  the  purport  of  the  telegram, 
had  known  where  to  find  him. 

"  Read  it,  my  boy."  said  Herbert  weanly.  when  the  tele- 
gram was  tendered  him.     "  Read  it ;  /can't. 

."HERBERT  Sinclair -.-Fearing  you  may  have  heard 
of  the  wreck  of  the  Phcebus  and  think  me  lost,  I  telegraph 
to  let  ylu  know  I  am  safe  in  Genoa,  having  left  the  .Pk.l>us 
two  days  before  she  went  down.      ^^   ^^^^^  ^^^^^^^^  ,  „ 


Hiram's  Oath. 


271 


•t's  brain. 
i  of  those 

rhe  paper 
aloud  for 
iomething 

he  woman 

glance  all 


he  hospital 
5  to  be  able 
lotic  to  be 

ne  Herbert 
s  had  pub- 
en,  Sinclair 
ount  of  the 
one  of  the 
le  telegram, 

len  the  tele- 


'  have  heard 
I  telegraph 
the  .Phoebus 

ECLAIR.'  " 


Herbert  broke  down  and  wept  as  he  had  not  for  thirty 
.ears      ^or-ars  no  great  ^oy  had  co^ 

rc:bCm:AX%eg^g"e7tosail  for  home  immedi- 

'%hen  he  went  to  Hiram's  bedside,  hoping  ^o  -ke  the 
poor  fellow  conscious  of  the  life-givmg  news.  But  that  was 
r  of  tbe  question  ;  Hiram  was  raving  p.teously  about  the 
oath  he  had  made  when  twenty-one. 

• '  Poor  Hiram  !  His  reverse  has  come  !  Oh  that  ne  may 
recover  Has  this  been  my  doing  ?  Have  I  been  wrong  m 
hrXg  him  live  in  Texas,  and  here,  and  there,  and  every^ 
wheTe  >  Was  I  wrong  in  having  Alice  travel  abroad,  and 
where.'  ^^^  ^  ^t  •  .  .„  ,  ,  Am  I  directly  responsible 
so  incur  danger  of  bemg  killed  ?  Am  i  ^"recuy  ^ 
for  all  that  has  happened?  God  help  me  !  lam!  Iam_ 
l"  as  a  midman  m'y^elf.  crazed  by  my  lovV^^ttk^dl 
brought  the  old  doctor  to  see  Hiram,  and  I  must  have  d  s 
orougui  lui^  madman ! 

torted  the  facts  to  him.    God  help  me  .   ^  ^  .  ^ 

An  hour  later  Herbert  was  in  a  coup^  and  on  hi?  way  10 
the  telegraph-office.  He  feebly  made  his  way  into  the  build- 
ing, and  asked  to  see  the  messenger-boys. 

When  he  returned  to  the  hospital  -g^  Jf  "^'^^^^J^  '^^  ^, 
troop  of  poor  little  messenger-boys  will  «"« ^  !^"^^7  ^^  "_ 
to-night, -one  of  them,  in  particular,  and  he  a  little  Jew. 

but  that  will  not  make  me  ^«y  ^"^^'^         ^^^  ^„d  Mrs. 

The  new  year  came,  and  with  it  came  aw'l 
WoJe.    S  Jm  »as  hovering  betw«.  life  and  *«*■  ^»'  '^ 
TL  held  ou.  hope  that  he  »ould  m»«n    A^m  AU^ 
and  Mrs.  Wolfe  were  his  nurses,  while  Herbert  looked  saa  y 

""slowly  life  and  reason  came  back  to  Hiram  His|-^ 
Jre  lei  violent.  Instead  of  fancying  •"""«", *"*.f"r" 
"Th*  rTh  in  Texas,  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  days 


lli 


2^2  Hiram's  Oath. 

when  he  had  first  known  Alice.  Then  ^^^  v.°"^«V«P*f^  °[ 
The  day  when  he  had  first  seen  her.  on  the  tram.  From  that 
Li  thoughts  would  drift  to  the  terrible  scene  when  ^h^  train 
went  to  pieces  and  he  was  buried  under  Us  rums.     Thi.s  had 

made  a  lasting  impression  on  his  mmd.  ^„„  ■u^a 

So  passed  January,  February,  and  March  ;  and  spnng  had 

come  again.    Still  Alice  watched  over  Hiram,  though  he  had 

"ng  sfnce  been  removed  from   the  hospital  to   a   pnvate 

house  which  Herbert  had  rented. 
^aZT"  said  Herbert  one  day,  "  do  take  a  little  exercse^ 

Why.  you  look  like  a  vine  that  has  grown  in  the  cellar,  and 

never  seen  the  sun !    You  will  be  ill  yourself,  Ahce ;  and 
never  seen  mc  ^     ^  ^^^^ 

then  what  should  we  do  ?    See  Here  .     oe  rea  > 
at  6  P.  M.,  for  if  you  are  not  ready  we  shall  l^^ve  to  Uke^ 
close  carriage,  and  I  have  ordered  an  open  one.     Poor  g«^ J 
When  you  came  back  from  Europe  this  time  you  didn  t  look 
more  than  thirty,  but  now  you  look  fully  forty." 

Herbert  was  right ;  she  was  so  wearied,  and  worn,  and  sad. 
that  she  seemed  no  longer  the  bright  Alice  of  old. 

As  they  turned  into  Golden  Gate  Park,  they  almost  col- 
lided with  a  gay  equipage,  in  which  sat  a  loveyjvoman 
robed  in  sombre  black,  but  looking  supremely  happy  and 

'"'At^rr -sobbed  Herbert.     •'  Alice."  brokenly,  "that 
is  the  woman  I  loved ;  that  is  my  wife  !    And  we  might 

^^h^Hefbert!    Drive  after  her  !    She  is  a  widow  now  ! 

'^No,"  said  Herbert  sadly,  "I  must  not.  I  am  a  child 
again,  and  I  wish  to  have  it  so.  My  heart  is  ashes,  but  I 
have  you  and  Hiram  to  love  me ;  that  is  enough. 

"But,  Herbert,  she  is  in  black!    She  is  a  widow!    And 


Hiram's  Oath. 


373 

You  nutst  see 


i  speak  of 

From  that 

^  the  train 

This  had 

spring  had 

igh  he  had 

a   private 

le  exercise. 

cellar,  and 
Alice;  and 

for  a  drive 

^e  to  take  a 

Poor  girl ! 

didn't  look 

rn,  and  sad, 
d. 

'  almost  col- 

ely  woman, 

happy  and 

:enly,  "that 
id  we  might 

widow  now ! 

;  am  a  child 
ashes,  but  I 
h."  . 
/idow !    And 


We  have  the 
Let  me  be  a 


she  looks  as  beautiful  and  as  young  as  ever. 

Vipr  '  " 

"Don't,  Alice;   the  awful   past  is  dead^ 
happy  future  before  us.  and  that  is  enough. 

'Teasofcame  back  to  Hiram  Wolfe.  The  twenty  yea« 
Je  allbut  told,  and  he  was  himself  again.  After  a  touc^- 
Tng  interview  with  Alice  and  his  mother,  he  asked  to  .see 

""  yIs  dear  Hiram,"  said  Alice,  "  I  will  call  him.  It  is 
hard  to  realize  that  all  is  well,  at  last.  The  -ffermg  .  all 
passed  now,  but  it  has  been  bitter  enough^  ,^°fV  getweU 
yet,  Hiram  ;  but  you  have  a  month  and  a  half  to  get  well 

in  " 

"«'  Till  June,"  said  Hiram,  faintly  and  sadly. 
•        ..Yes.Hiram;  till  June.     But  don't  look  so  sorrowful;  the 
tide  has  turned  ;  our  days  of  happiness  have  come. 

She  w"  him  tenderly,  and  he  passionately  returned  the 

^*  Herbert  came  into  the  room,  to  find  Hiram  wasted  to  a 
«i,«rlow  but  with  the  old,  resolute  look  in  his  eyes. 

"Now.tWs  te  something  to  live  for,  .snt  ,t!     And  yon 
ta«";  lost  a  day,  either ;  for  the  date  we  Sxed  on  hasn  t 

^HeSrt,  listen  !"  said  Hiram,  in  so  strained  a  tone  that 
^'X:TL^.  Hiran,,"  he  said;  "- -\-Jf  il 

.-rsie^'r;::::e~^":--^'tS^^ 


274 


Hiram's  Oath. 


waiting  have  not  been  in  vain  !  Think  of  yourself !  Think 
of  Alice!" 

"It  is  of  Alice  I  think,  Herbert.  The  oath  made  long 
years  ago  must  be  renewed.  An.swer  me  truly,  Herbert ;  is 
there  not  danger?    The  curse  of  insanity  would  follow — ." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  ;  I  don't  know  ;  I  had  not  thought  of 
this.     Oh,  Alice!     Hiram!     Would  to  Heaven —." 

"  Be  calm,  Herbert.  My  constitution  is  undermined  ;  my 
mind  is  shattered  ;  I  shall  die.  The  great  doctor  is  no  more, 
but  I  know  what  he  would  say.  We  did  not  tell  him  that  I 
wished  to  marry,  at  the  fulfilment  of  the  twenty  years,  but 
he  knew  it.  It  was  tacitly  understood,  Herbert,  that  if  the 
malady  should  return,  the  curse  would  likewise  return." 

' '  He  said  nothing  about  that ;  he  simply  said,  in  twenty 
years  you  would  have  left  it  behind  you.  So,  it  is  bosh  ;  I 
don't  believe  it." 

"  You  do,  Herbert ;  and  /do.    He  did  not  say  it,  because — " 

' '  Because  he  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing ! ' '  broke  in 
Herbert. 

—  "because  he  did  not  wish  to  trouble  us.  But  it  was 
understood.  Herbert,  in  a  few  days  I  shall  die,  because  I, 
too,  have  nothing  to  live  for.  What  I  said  years  ago  was 
sadly  prophetic :  'I  have  made  a  vow;  I  will  keep  it.' — 
Herbert,  my  brother,  don't  grieve  ;  devote  your  life  to  Alice, 
as  you  have  devoted  it  to  me. ' ' 

But  Herbert  could  no  longer  control  his  grief. 

"Herbert,  I  did  not  destroy  the  foolish  oath  I  drew  up  ; 
you  kept  it  for  me.  Give  it  to  me,  please,  if  you  have  it  still ; 
I  wish  to  destroy  it  now,  before  I  die." 

Shaking  from  head  to  foot,  Herbert  slowly  drew  a  heavy 
metal  case  from  an  inner  pocket,  and  took  therefrom  a  paper. 
Faithful  Herbert  !  He  had  carried  it  about  him  all  these 
years,  the  metallic  case  preserving  it  intact. 


Hiram's  Oath. 


an 


!    Think 

nade  long 
erbert ;  is 
allow—." 
bought  of 

lined  ;  my 
is  no  more, 
him  that  I 
years,  but 
that  if  the 
:turn." 
in  twenty 
is  bosh ;  I 

because — " 
"  broke  in 

But  it  was 
,  because  I, 
rs  ago  was 
I  keep  it.'— 
life  to  Alice, 


..It    once    saved    my   life    from    a    Confederate  bullet. 

"'.'Thank  Ood  for  that !  But  Alice  must  not  see  that 
wicked  oath  ;  burn  it  in  the  grate,  l^efore  me.-That  is  good. 
Ttl  my  will  long  ago,  and  you  will  find  U  w.th  our 
lawyer.  It  leaves  everything,  without  reserve,  to  Alice.  We 
shall  all  meet  again,  Herbert." 

These  were  Hiram  Wolfe's  last  conscious  words      Hts 
suffer^gs  were  not  prolonged  ;  at  midnight  he  called  dehr- 

iously : 

"Herbert!     Herbert!" 

"  Yes.  my  brother  ;  I  am  here." 

..  Herbert,  it  is  pressing  me  hard.     Call  up  the  horses  and 
we  wiUnake  a  long  run  together.      Then  -  we  will  write  - 

to  Alice." 

A  labored  breath,  and  all  was  still. 

"  He  is  gone  !  "  sobbed  Herbert. 

Hiram  had  kept  his  oath ;  he  had  removed  the  curse. 

Alice.  Herbert,  and  Mrs.  Wolfe  went  back  to  Virginia, 
taldng    heir  dead  with  them,  and  thence  to  Maryland. 

Spring  had  come,  but  it  had  no  charms  for  them  The 
ye^rdled  on.  and  they  mechanically  went  through  with 
their  duties.     But  Hiram  could  never  be  forgotten. 


I  drew  up  ; 
have  it  still ; 

Irew  a  heavy 
Tom  a  paper, 
lim  all  these 


^"^^7^[^^^ 


*-r^ 


•76 


So  Shall  /  Sleep. 


SO  SHALL  I  SLEKP. 

As  sleeps  a  chUd,  eaw.l  from  hi.  pain, 
Ah  sleep  the  dRiiien,  bathed  in  dew, 
A«  sleep  the  song  birds,  when  the  day 

It  o'er,  and  niKht  has  come  with  rain  ;— 
So  shall  I  sleep.  I've  heard  from  you. 
And  that  has  charmed  my  pain  away. 

Suspense  is  past,  I  now  may  sleep, 

And  rest  will  bring  me  long-lost  peace. 

Will  give  me  strength,  may  bring  sweet  dreams 

Of  you,  that  1  would  alway  keep. 

Sleep  and  good  news  will  bring  surcease 
From  old  regrets,  from  sadd'ning  theuies. 

As  romps  a  child.  i«i  his  mad  play. 

As  breathe  the  woods,  when  Spring  has  com.., 

As  carol  song-birds,  after  rain,— 
So  sings  my  soul,  this  gladsonie  day. 

And  ev'ry  sense,  that  seemed  so  numb. 

Is  quiv'ring  MOW  with  joy,  not  pain. 

As  wakes  a  child,  in  rosy  health. 

As  wake  the  flowers,  'neath  May-bright  sun, 
As  wake  the  birds,  when  they  forsake 

A  Northern  clime,  as  'twere  by  stealth  ;- 
So,  knowing  you  are  well,  loved  one. 
When  breaks  the  morn,  so  shall  I  wake. 


i^iun  7riut»pb. 


VAIN  TRIUMPH. 

(A    PRAOMKNT). 

In  the  days  of  my  younK  manhotxl. 
At  the  fcolclen  age  of  twenty, 
I  looked  out  upon  a  bright  world 
Full  of  beauty  and  of  gladneM ; 
Saw  in  Nature  only  aunahine, 
Saw  in  mankind  only  goothieas, 
For  I  lived  at  peace  with  all  men, 
Though  by  no  man  was  befriended. 


From  that  time  came  premonition*, 
•Dim  forebodinga,  tranaient  glimpaea, 
Of  a  phantom,  weird  and  sombre. 
That  in  future  days  should  haunt  me. 


For  this  waa  no  boyish  passion. 
But  a  love  to  last  a  life-time. 
To  survive  all  evil  fortune. 
E'en  the  grave,  and  live  triumphant 
lu  the  glorious  Hereafter. 

Soon  1  won  my  darling's  promise 
To  be  mitie,  now,  aud  forever. 

And  thenceforth  how  bright  was  Nature, 

Filled  again  with  joyous  sunshine  ! 

Strong  and  pure  my  faith  in  Heaven. 

And  in  the  Almighty's  goodness. 


278 


i- 


yain  Triumph. 

Then  began  the  phantoni  visits 
That  had  long  been  full  expected. 
'Twas  no  monster  that  came  to  me, 
No  forbidding,  cruel  spectre, 
But  a  slow,  dim-outlined  figure. 
Partly  spirit,  partly  vision, 
With  grave  gestures  and  sad  accents. 
Oft  all'-.iing,  oft  consoling, 
Vaguely  whispering  of  Nelly, 
Then  again  of  disappointment; 
Friendly  towards  me,  and  yet  mocking, 
A  pursuer,  no  inspirer. 
Still  I,  awe-struck,  clung  unto  it, 
Nightly  waited  for  its  coming. 
Though  too  oft  it  came  to  torture. 

#  *  »  *  * 

"Never  more,"  she  said  in  anger, 
"Can  I  speak  to  you  or  see  you. 
I  am  promised  to  another; 
My  old  love  for  you  is  conquered, 
And  the  past  is  past  forever." 

Thus  she  heartless  broke  her  promise, 
Heartless  left  me  to  my  mis'ry, 
Left  me,  with  this  grave  suspicion, 
And  would  hear  no  explication. 

How  I  longed  for  night  to  bring  me 
Counsel  from  my  sage  familiar; 
But,  alas !  it  came  not  nigh  me. 
Could  it  be  it  was  cmniected. 
As  had  oft  been  borne  upon  me, 
With  the  sweetheart  who  had  loved  me  ? 
***** 
As  one  who  has  been  a  captive 
Half  a  life-time  in  a  dungeon 
Sees  a  day  fixed  for  his  freedom. 
Then  is  thrust  into  a  dungeon 
Deeper,  blacker,  and  more  awful. 
With  no  hope  of  future  egress  — 

*  * 


yain  Triumph. 

As  iu  dreams  the  old  delusions, 
The  old  faces,  the  fond  meni'ries, 
Are  revived,  and  the  old  heart-break, 
That  in  sleep  is  oft  rebellious. 
With  o'ermast'ring  domination, 
Bursts  the  mighty  Past's  locked  portals, 
Brings  the  dead  again  before  us. 
Shows  dim  glimpses  of  the  Future, 
Then  soothes  all  our  fierce  repmings, 
Till  we  wake  to  dull  reaction 
And  the  sharp  regret  of  living  — 
So  now  gliding  like  a  phantom 
Nelly's  spirit  came  beside  me. 
With  a  calm,  bright  smile  of  greeting.  ^ 
"Though  on  earth  we  parted  strangers, 
Came  a  voice,  a  breath,  an  echo, 
"Though  I  seemed  but  brief  to  love  you. 
And  once  goaded  you  to  madness. 
Yet  my  heart  was  with  you  alway ; 
And  now  from  the  sleepless  Death-land 
I  am  come  to  prove  repentance 
And  ^deem  my  giriisb  promise 
That  our  love  should  be  immortal. 
•Tis  for  me  to  ask  forgiveness, 
And  for  you  again  to  pardon." 

With  a  quick,  wild  cry  of  triumph 
I  reached  forth,  with  frenzied  gladness. 
To  seize  fast  my  death-won  Nelly, 
That  she  ne'er  again  should  leave  me. 

But  once  more  I  grasped  at  shadows, 
'Twas  the  old  hallucination, 
The  old  sombre,  mocking  phantom, 
With  his  protean  disguises ; 
Armed  with  means  of  keener  torture, 
Since  he  wore  my  loved  one's  features, 
Had  her  air,  her  grace,  her  accents - 
For  now  joyous  first,  then  sadd'ning. 
With  life's  vigor  and  life's  clearness, 
Nellv's  footsteps,  Nelly's  laughter. 


'      28o 


yain  Triumph. 

On  my  ears  like  music  falling, 
Roused  me  from  my  trance-like  stupor. 
She  was  jesting  with  another, 
Not  for  me  her  mirth  or  converse. 

So  the  smile  was  as  the  phantom, 
And  the  words  were  but  a  mock'ry. 

♦  *  •  *  * 

This  strange  thought  stirred  all  my  life-blood, 

Fired  again  my  drooping  spirits, 

Brought  new  soul  into  my  being ; 

And  once  more  I  sought  my  Nelly, 

Still  unwedded,  still  my  goddess. 


!| 


The  Archer  and  the  Eagle. 


28  X 


ood, 


THE  ARCHER  AND  THE  EAGLE. 

r^ARL  ADLER  was  a  romantic,  indolent  young  man 
C     with  no  capital  in  life  except  a  genius  for  music      He 
v^;;:^  an  expert  performer  on  the  violin,  his  favonte  mstru^ 

%trtar^  Hl"^dtu^^^^^^^  either- 

J.tlinorhis  voice,  but  worked  hard  day  after  day  ma 

tobacco-factory,  of  which  he  was  «T""*^f  :"^k  f„'  fyt 
ambitious  dreams  of  some  day  leaving  his  work  in  this 
L^Cand  appearing  before  the  world  as  a  great  violin  stp 
but  fo  the  p^eint  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to 
p^c^  on  steadily  and  accept  whatever  fortune  might  bring 

"^  Mter  working  all  day  he  would  go  home  to  his  lodging^ 
house,  take  his  violin-case,  and  wander  out  of  tl>e  city  to  a 
quiet  spot  beside  the  river,  where  he  would  play  sometimes 
?ill  welUiitb  the  night.  This  he  would  ^o  evenr  P^^a-nt 
evenine  playing  softly  in  his  own  room  when  the  weather 
rnot'suitlbl'forhimtogoou.  He  preferred  to  b^^^^^ 
when  playing  solely  for  his  love  of  music  ;  but  his  ^^^idim 
ZlTlnll  not  appreciate  music,  did  not  encourage  him  ta 

play  in  the  house.  ^  f«,  «,«.  '»^ 

'■  There  is  no  one  for  me  to  love  ;  no  one  to  care  for  me. 
Carl  would  often  sigh.     "I  have  no  mother,  no  sister  no 
ttfe  ;T1  but  a  stronger  in  a  strange  land.     I  seem  to  have 
reticular  friends;  there  is  no  one  that  coud  become  well 
enough  acquainted  with  me  even  to  take  an  interest  m  my 


282  The  Archer  and  the  Eagle. 

welfare.    1  must  never  dream  of  a  »ife  and  "ome  ■  I  ".»»t 

L  for  myself  ^^^^^^^^^^^  l^^t:^ 

case  under  his  arm  he  was  slowly  making  ^>^;y*y  '    ^ 
^eLat  up  the  river.     As  usual  he  was  thmkmg  of  ,,^^^^^^ 

his  beloved  violin.  Suddenly  ^  J^^'^f^^X^^Xc^  He 
turned  the  comer  of  a  street,  and  met  ^^^^^^ f  ^^^;,1,,,„ 
stepped  aside  nnd  was  movmg  on.  when  the  genti 

exclaimed :  .     a -pv-er  "    Then, 

"  Here's  the  very  person  you  want,  Miss  Archer. 
■sottovoce,  "An  adept  at  the  art,  I  assure  you. 

Carl  paused,  and  tl-  ^^-^^ -^"^Adt  Tr    ^dler. 
introduce  you,  Miss  Archer,  to  Mr.  Adler. 

Miss  Archer."  .       introduction. 

Cari  bowed    in    acknowledgment    of   the    ^"^^°*;" 

.aid  Mto  Archer,  m  a  slow,  m™-'j^~^  „,  Jtolrrow 
convenient  for  you  tocome  "^wtTirc^^ient-." 

«.e  ^o":;tdy  for  a  moment  -'ied Je  .aao^^rSl^ 
the  honor  of  the  invitation.    But  a  secona  gia 

convinced  her  that  such  was  not  the  c^^_  ^^^ed. 

..you  play  Strauss'scompositionslsupp^^^ 
.'Yes,Ihavemostofhiscompositions     Cartsam^^^^ 

..  Sind  Sie  nicht  einer  seiner  I^*°f ^f 5,f "  ^f'^e  ein 
..  Ich  bin  es  ;  ich  kam  aber  vor  f"^f  «^" J*^^;.^^^^  ^Is 

Kind,  nach  Amerika.  und  ich  spreche  lieber  enghsch 

deutsch.     Ich  habe  Musik  bier  studirt. 


hi 


m 


V  !    ' 


The  Archer  and  the  Eagle. 


283 


I  must 
violin." 
ife  ;  but 
is  violin- 
ly  to  his 
s  art  and 
jntleman 
ice.     He 
entleman 

"    Then, 

nit  me  to 
[r.  Adler, 

roduction. 
;d  himself, 
e  in  what 

[r.  Adler," 
^ould  it  be 
;  to-morrow 
enient — ." 
mptly  that 
powered  by 
e  at  his  face 

'  she  asked, 
id  modestly. 
Adler?" 
ren,  wie  ein 
englisch  als 


"Very  well;  bring  a"  the  best  of  Strauss's  music  you 

have,  please,  Mr.  Adler." 

"  I  will ;  but,  excuse  me.  Miss  Archer,  you  have  not  given 
me  the  address,"  Cart  said,  with  a  smile 

Miss  Archer,  taken  by  surprise,  looked  at  Carl  blankly 
for  she  supposed  that  everybody  knew  where  Justice  Archer 
lived.     Immediately  she  recovered  herself  and  gave     he 
address,  adding  :     "  Have  you  your  violin  with  you,  in  the 

case?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

' '  I  suppose  you  value  it  very  highly  ?  " 
"Yes,  Miss  Archer,"  Cari  replied,  with  a  fond  glance  at 
the  case.     "  I  —  I  worship  it. " 

"  It's  a  Stradivarius,  is  it  not?"  asked  the  gentleman. 
"  No,"  replied  Cari,  "  it's  an  Amati." 
"Ah  well ;  both  were  the  great  Cremonese  makers. 
Then  Miss  Archer  and  her  escort  pursued  their  way,  while 
Cari  went  on  to  his  retreat. 

"Of  course  it  is  my  violin,  not  me,  they  want  Carl 
mused.  "But  all  the  same,  I  will  go,  and  do  my  best  to 
amuse  the  company."  !,:„„,„« 

The  next  evening  he  dressed  with  care,  and  bent  his  way 
to  Justice  Archer's  big  marble  house.  He  was  at  oncej^own 
into  a  handsomely  funiished  salon,  where  he  found  a  knot  of 
fashionable  people  already  assembled. 

Miss  Archer  advanced  and  received  him  cordially.  Then 
she  introduced  him  to  two  or  three  of  those  present  as  Mr. 
Adler,  a  young  violinist  of  this  city." 

Cari  saw  in  what  light  he  was  regarded,  and  was  careful 
not  to  obtrude.  However,  he  had  not  come  as  a  paid  musi- 
cian, and  this  thought  comforted  him. 

p;esently  he  was  called  upon  to  play.  Feehng  that  some 
of  the  fashionable  people  about  him  were  covertly  laughing 


28^  The  Archer  and  the  Eagle. 

at  him,  and  wUhing,  perhaps,  to  exhibit  hi,  skill  befo«  «» 

rr«ne^irtir?rt:t=::n4eaL 
tSf  ::^«ro":h^  ;^.^srwi.h\is  ..o.. ..  ^ 

the  music.  ^f  .'Wein    Weib,  und  Gesang  " 

When  the  last  strains  of      Wein,  weiu,  unwed 

aiIa«a..he.wasa.u^bu-o^^^^^^^^^ 

^"  -r  ".s:  :»ro.  A.e- „; -- 

not  heard  such  music  since  I  came  from  the  land 

"•"•The  instrument  is  a  '^^■^^^^^tlZ. 
of  the  old  classic  makers,'  '"""'"'y"""*.*^"  „„;„,  ..i,„t 
introduced  Carl  to  Miss  Archer  the  Fe™»  J"^,^  as  "o 
as  much  is  due  to  the  performer's  talent  and  skm 

"""Yes  Mr  Adler,"  said  Justice  Archer,  coming  up  to  the 
noXsMngtlinist,  "  V""  -  "^rsl  dTnt™^  his 

head.         i  ney  raic  ^y.  o  common 

is  the  instrument.     B'^\Pff,%^^;^  *^^Jd  aloud  :  ''Do 
scraper  on  a  namele^viohn.T^-^^^  sa  ^^^  ^^^ 

not  give  me  praise  that  I  do  not  deserve 
dled^he  bow  long  enough  yet  to  be  maste^^^^^^^^ 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  first  took  up  tlie  vioun 

one  of  the  guests.  _        ^    j^^atingly .  for 

"  Barely  six  years,     Carl  repiiea      u         t-  crff  in 

it  is  the  Jork  almost  of  a  life-time  to  perfect  one  s  self 

'"ZJ  rull^v^i^-lled  for,  and  Carl  delighted  the  company 


The  Archer  and  the  Eagle. 


285 


fore  Miss 
is  suscep- 
played  as 

ience  was 
him.  But 
)le  soul  in 

Gesang" 
arl  bowed 
ument. 

"I  have 
,nd  of  vio- 

ork  of  one 
an  who  had 
ning,  "but 
skill  as  to 

ig  up  to  the 

Amati." 
not  turn  his 
imself;  "it 
)r  a  common 
iloud  :  "Do 
ve  not  han- 

»> 

)lin?"  asked 

»catingly,  for 
one's  self  in 


throughout  the  entire  evening,  sometimes  playing  alone, 
"::  accompanied  on  thepiano  by  Miss  Archer  or  other 
of  the  young  ladies.  The  uninitiated  jon^ed  m  ^^^^^-^^ 
every  one  declared  the  performance  exquisite.  Some  of  the 
gUemen  were  envious  of  Carl's  marvelous  dextenty  a^d 
sympathy  in  wielding  the  bow ;  and  some  of  the  fair  sex 
we^des^rately  in  love  with  him,  and  manoeuvred  adroitly 

to  obtain  an  introduction.  A^r^^rxAt^A 

The  evening  passed  pleasantly  until  some  one  demanded 

why  Mr.  Adler  had  never  appeared  in  public  before.     Then 

I0L  one  unluckily  asked  what  Mr.  Adler' s  occupation  might 

^This  was  put  as  a  direct  question,  and  Carl  did  not  hesitate 
toln  wlr  t"^  Feeling  a  little  bitter,  perhaps,  that  it  was  his 
muTnot  himself,  that  excited  admiration,  and  being  some- 
what of  a  Socialist  at  heart,  he  answered  bluntly,  almost 
defiantlv   "  I  am  a  workman  in  a  tobacco  factory. 

There  was  dead  silence  for  a  full  minute.  Carl  stealthily 
glanced  about  him.  and  saw  the  look  of  horror  that  transfixed 
?he  faces  of  several  of  those  present.  But  he  only  smiled 
grtnSy  and  said  to  himself.  "  This  will  be  a  severe  test  for 
tToi  them,  it  seems.     Now  we  shall  see  who  are  truly 

'''Z::\':T^-^  ^^  f-  when  he  saw  that  Miss 
Archer  herself  looked  inexpressibly  annoyed,  and  he  wished 
het^ld  recall  his  hasty  words.  "Butno."  he  reflected  ; 
<•  let  me  see  whether  she  is  like  the  rest.' 

•'Mr  Adler."  said  Justice  Archer.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you 
are  notabove  your  calling.  As  an  American  citizen  you  are 
on  a  level  with  us  all;  as  a  musician,  you  are  infini  e^ 
superior  to  any  of  us.  The  young  man  with  a  genius  like 
yoCneed  not  be  ashamed  to  stand  before  a  workman  s 


the  company 


286  The  Archer  and  the  Eagle. 

bench,  because  he  is  conscious  that  some  day  he  will  immor- 

'Irm'^yTJ  the  justice  said  this  as  a  well-merited  rebuke  to 
such  as  sneered  at  Carl.  The  latter  himself  took  it  as  a  mild 
rebuke,  and  felt  equally  abashed  with  those  at  whom  it  was 

more  directly  leveled.  «         ,    r  *t,« «,«« 

Soon  afterward  the  party  broke  up.     Several  of  the  more 
influential  people   gathered  about  Carl,  among  them  the 
uSce    Mi^  Archer,  and  Mr.  Melbourne -the  gentleman 
who  had  given  Carl  the  introduction  to  Miss  Archer,  and 
who  had,  in  a  quiet  way.  proved  himself  Carl's  champion. 

.'  I  hope  we  shall  hear  you  again,"  said  the  justice  kindly 
-  Can  not  you  drop  in  some  day  next  week  ?  What  day  shall 
we  appoint,  MoUie?"  to  his  daughter.  .       ^     ^         ., 

"  Could  you  come  next  Wednesday  ?  -  Miss  Archer  said. 
"Yes,  Miss  Archer." 

"Very  well,  then;  we  shall  expect  you  next  Wednes- 
day" ,  .      ,. 
"  I  will  come.     Good  evening. 

Carl  reflected,  on  his  way  home  .  "She  does  not  despise 
me  at  all  events.  In  fact,  she  seemed  to  ^^^^^^.^^^^ 
something  more  tangible  than  mere  courtesy.  Was  it  admira- 
tion  ?  Oh  !  that  the  day  of  my  triumph  would  come  !  But 
itseemsasfar  away  as  ever." 

Carl  kept  his  appointment  on  the  following  Wednesday 
and  played  as  exquisitely  as  he  had  done  before.  How  it 
thrilled  him  with  delight  to  stand  beside  Miss  Archer !  As 
they  both  read  oflf  the  same  sheet  of  music  he  was  obliged 
to  manoeuvre  dexterously  to  avoid  hitting  her  with  the  bow. 
It  was  a  novel  experience  for  him  to  have  a  young  lady 

^'orrh^'^casion  it  was  discovered  that  Carl  could  sing, 


The  Archer  and  the  Eagle. 


i%^ 


1  immor- 

ebuke  to 
as  a  mild 
)m  it  was 

the  more 
them  the 
rentleman 
rcher,  and 
impion. 
ce  kindly. 
t  day  shall 

rcher  said. 

t  Wednes- 


lot  despise 
d  me  with 
sitadmira- 
ome !     But 

Wednesday, 
B.  How  it 
rcher !  As 
was  obliged 
th  the  bow. 
young  lady 

could  sing, 


and  he  fairly  electrified  Miss  Archer  with  his  fine  voice. 
How  it  rejoiced  him  to  call  forth  approbation  from  her  ! 

Before  the  evening  was  over  a  maid  brought  in  substantial 
refreshments  of  cake  and  coffee ;  and  when  Carl  arose  to  take 
leave  he  was  pressed  to  come  again. 

Poor  Carl !  As  he  walked  to  his  lonely  rooms  he  swore 
that,  God  helping  him,  Miss  Archer  should  be  his  wife. 

«'  They  treat  me  as  hospitably  as  if  I  were  the  most  stylish 
gentleman  in  all  Charleston.  I  will  hope  for  the  best,  and 
do  my  utmost  to  prove  worthy  of  her  and  to  win  her. ' ' 

The  next  time  Carl  Adler  went  to  Justice  Archer  s  he 
found  Mr.  Melbourne  there.  "  I  want  to  enjoy  the  music, 
too,  if  you  will  permit  me,"  this  gentleman  said,  smiling 
Eood-humoredly. 

Carl  felt  a  pang  of  jealousy  ;  but  he  and  Miss  Archer  were 
soon  so  much  engrossed  in  playing  that  he  almost  forgot 

another's  presence.  ,  j  ,, 

"Sing  me  'The  Archer  and  the  Eagle,'     suggested  Mr. 

Melbourne,  with  a  provoking  laugh.  ^     .     ,. 

The  ioke  elicited  an  appreciative  smile  from  the  justice, 

but  Carl  started  as  if  he  already  felt  the  "bolt."     This 

whimsical  allusion  had  never  occurred  to  him  before. 

Again  refreshments  were  served  ;  again  he  was  pressed  to 

come  and  play.  .     .     ^.    , 

So  the  summer  passed.  Carl  had  played  at  the  justice  s 
six  times  since  the  night  of  the  social  gathering,  and  was  now 
madly  in  love  with  Miss  Archer.  She  filled  the  void  in  his 
heart ;  she  was  his  all  in  all.  He  cared  to  live  but  to  see 
her  and  counted  on  the  evenings  he  was  to  spend  in  her 
company  as  a  schoolboy  counts  on  his  holidays.  Not  satis- 
fied with  seeing  her  occasionally  at  her  own  home,  he 
neglected  his  beloved  violin,  and  haunted  the  park  and  other 
.     places  where  he  thought  there  was  any  pos.sibility  of  seeing 


a88  7"*^  /<rri!>«!r  ami  the  Eagle. 

her.  Then  he  regularly  attended  the  church  which  she  at- 
tended.  Still  he  never  intruded,  never  spoke  unless  she 
recognised  him.  and  never  presumed  while  in  her  father  s 

^°"1he  must  be  my  wife,  or  I  .shall  go  mad,"  he  said 

At  length  he  determined  to  propose  marnage  boldly,  but 
before  doing  so  he  would  make  a  supreme  effort  to  have  the 
worid  recognize  his  genius.  To  that  end  he  made  apphca- 
Uon  to  JusLe  Archer  and  some  others  for  letters  of  recom- 
mendatiin.  and  armed  with  these  he  went  to  Boston  The^ 
his  wonderful  genius  excited  the  liveliest  admiration  from 
musTcal  critics  The  New  England  Conservatory  of  Music 
received  him  most  favorably,  and  prophesied  a  brilliant  career 

°  AtTast  it  seemed  as  if  fortune  had  smiled  on  him. 

.'  The  factory  will  have  to  look  out  for  another  superin- 
tendent "  he  said  gleefully.  "But  I  must  go  back  to 
Charlesto"  and  see  my  darling.      A  few  hours  there,  and 

then  hurrah  for  Boston  again  !  "  ^„^.u^r  re- 

Carl  found  that  he  was  expected  to  give  still  another  re 
cital  in  Boston  in  the  course  of  a  few  days,  and  that  prob- 
ably he  should  not  get  away  for  a  full  week^    Too  impat  en 
to  wait  so  long,  he  determined  to  write  to  Miss  Archer  that 
verTday  teUingherof  his  good  fortune  and  of  hisambitious 
dreams  and  asking  her  to  be  his  wife. 

FuT'of  his  great  love  for  her.  Carl  wrote  a  pathetic,  yet 
eloquent,  letter.  Then  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  impa- 
tiently to  await  an  answer.  1.  „♦!,:„<,>•  he 
..  It  seems  almost  madness  for  me  to  do  such  a  ^  "g.  he 
said  to  himself.  "  What  has  she  ever  said  that  I  should 
suppose  she  cares  for  me?  She  has  treated  me  with  the 
Trea^st  kindness  and  respect,  but  that  is  all.  What  cause 
hive  I  tol  so  infatuated?    But  she  loves  me !  she  loves 


The  Archer  and  the  Eagle, 


389 


h  she  at- 
iiless  she 
•  father's 

aid. 
)ldly,  but 

have  the 
e  applica- 
of  recom- 
1.  There 
tion  from 

of  Music 
ant  career 

tn. 

;r  superin- 
0  back  to 
there,  and 

mother  re- 
that  prob- 
)  impatient 
Archer  that 
s  ambitious 

athetic,  yet 
but  impa- 

,  thing,"  he 
at  I  should 
le  with  the 
What  cause 
;!  she  loves 


me  !  she  loves  me  !  I  know  it !  Didn't  she  lend  me  some 
of  her  best  music  to  bring  here,  and  didn't  she  give  me  a 
bouquet  when  I  bade  her  good-by  ?  Oh.  my  love  !  my  love ! 
God  has  been  merciful ;  He  has  helped  me  ;  and  you  will  yet 

be  mine!"  «    u  j 

The  last  day  of  Carl's  stay  in  Boston  had  come.  He  had 
given  one  more  exhibition  of  his  genius,  and  his  success  was 
now  assured.  There  was  nothing  more  for  him  to  do  but  to 
become  famous,  he  was  told. 

To-day  he  might  confidently  look  for  a  letter.  What  would 
the  answer  be  ?  Kis  letlei  was  to  be  sent  to  the  "  general  de- 
livery," and  as  he  walked  to  the  post-office  his  heart  was 
light  and  again  heavy.  ^^ 

His  thoughts  reverted  to  the  evening  he  had  sung  The 
Archer  and  the  Eagle,"  and  these  lines  rang  in  his  memory  :  — 

"With  fatal  nini  the  bolt  she  laiiched, 
AikI  with  a  scream  the  eagle  rose. 
His  gaping  womul  can  not  be  stanched  — 

His  plutnes  are  hers,  the  proud  Montrose ! " 

His  voice  trembled  as  he  asked  the  clerk  to  look  for  his 
name.  A  letter  was  carelessly  handed  him,  and  at  a  glance 
he  saw  that  the  handwriting  was  feminine  and  the  post-mark 

Charleston. 

He  almost  staggered  as  he  walked  out  of  the  post-office. 
"She  is  the  only  one,"  he  thought,  "who  would  write  to 
me  ;  so  it  is  from  her.  Heaven  help  me  !  It  must  be  hope, 
for  the  tide  has  tunied. "  ,  . 

Turning  up  a  quieter  street,  he  tore  open  the  envelope  and 
took  out  the  letter,  which  ran  :  — 

"Mr.  Adler,  Dear  5/r.— Though  pleased  to  hear  of 
your  merited  good  fortune,  I  was  pained  and  surprised  by 
your  proposal  of  marriage.    If  I  have  ever  unwittingly  given 


jPHi 


^^  The  Archer  ami  the  Eagle. 

vou  cause  to  think  I  might  Ixr  your  wife.  I  sincerely  regret 
r  I  am  truly  sorry  if  you  feel  as  deeply  in  this  matter  as 
your  letter  represents  ;  but  can  only  say.  .n  rep  y  that  I  am 
soon  to  n.arry  Mr.  Melbourne.  Try  not  to  th.nk  of  me  at 
all :  devote  yourself  wholly  to  the  glory  of  your  art. 

•'  With  sincerest  wishes  for  your  prosi«nty  and  happiness. 
I  am,  as  ever,  your  true  friend.  M.  Archer. 

Carl  read  his  letter  to  the  end.  and  then  mechanically  put 
it  i..  his  pocket.  Then  he  went  on.  hopelessly,  aimlessly. 
"  I  —  I  ought  to  have  waited,"  he  said  aloud. 

Presently  he  fell.  .  , 

Two  or  three  curious  ones  ran  up  to  him.  and  a  crowd  soon 

collected. 

' '  Sunstroke. ' '  cried  one. 

' '  Heart  disease. 

"Apoplexy." 

"Take  him  to  the  hospital."  . 

Three  days  later  this  brief  paragraph  appeared  in  the 

Boston  Globe: 

..g._t  7th -At  the  hospital  died  yesterday  Mr.  Carl 
Adler  a  young  violinist  from  the  South.  It  is  said  that  he 
had  ust  received  an  appointment  from  our  New  England 
Conivatory  of  Music.  Doctors  differ  as  to  the  cause  of  his 
death  but  ft  is  generally  attributed  to  the  intense  heat. 
S  has  caused  cases  of  sunstroke  all  over  the  country.  In 
The  young  man's  pocket  was  a  letter  from  a  fnend  in  his 
Southern  home.     Contents  not  divulged. ' ' 

The  Boston  doctors  didn't  believe  in  sentiment,  but  they 
could  respect  a  dead  man's  secret.  Otherwise  the  reporters 
might  have  worked  up  a  grim  sensation. 


iLlHUIUIVim*  '»"?"■.■ 


(gammon,  etc. 


891 


merely  regret 

lis  matter  as 

y,  that  I  am 

Ilk  of  me  at 

r  art. 

id  happinefts, 

\kchbk." 

nanically  put 
y,  aimlessly. 


a  crowd  soon 


MAMMON. 

A  STRONG  man,  Ifue,  with  noble  mien, 
Defunt,  in  his  oft-proved  might; 
Hi*  Bteadfast  dog  erect   besirle, 
Reflecting  all  hi*  niaster'a  pride  ; 
With  firniert  trust  in  maiden's  plight, 
And  little  reck  for  Fortune's  apleen. 

A  maiden  fair,  with  love  of  pelf, 

And  scoriiful  of  a  brave  heart  viron  ; 

Fierce,  taunting  words  ere  she  forsook 
A  last  embrace,  a  last  sad  look. 

A  lean  dog,  dozing  in  the  sun  ; 

A  madman,  mutfring  to  himself. 


it 


peared  in  the 

day  Mr.  Carl 
s  said  that  he 
New  England 
he  cause  of  his 
intense  heat, 
le  country.  In 
a  friend  in  his 


ment,  but  they 
e  the  reporters 


TIME,  THE  HEALER. 
Stony-eyed  grief—  Christmas,  1885. 

AS  looms  against  the  midnight  skies 
A  lonely,  spectral,  blasted  tree. 

So  shapes  the  past  before  my  eyes 

Whene'er  my  thoughts  revert  to  thee. 

Chastened  grief-  Christmas,  189'. 

As  souie  loved  picture  in  a  book 

Recalls  a  cherished  by-gone  thought, 

So  thou,  when  on  the  past  1  look. 

Recall's!  the  happiness  once  sought. 


Things  Begin  to  get  Interesting. 


THINGS  BEGIN  TO  GET  INTERESTING.* 

AFTER  a  weary  march  due  east,  they  came  to  a  small, 
cleared  space,  in  which  stood  a  miserable  hut.     A 
faint  line  of  smoke  was  curling  from  the  roof,  but  no  person 

^*-Now  this  isn't  another  powder  magazine,"  said  Steve; 
"  therefore  it  must  be  a  'wayside  hut.'  My  wounds  have 
made  me  thirsty,  of  course,  and  we  can  probably  get  a  dnnk 
here  whether  any  one  is  in  or  not,  so  I  am  gomg  in. 

The  others,  also,  felt  thirsty  ;  and  Charles  was  advancmg 
to  knock  at  the  door,  when  Steve  softly  called  him  back. 

"Now  Charley,"  he  said,  "  I  haven't  read  romances  for 
nothing,  and  if  there's  villainy  any  where  in  this  forest,  it  s 
here.  Of  course  you've  all  read  that  villains  have  what  is 
called  a  '  peculiar  knock  ?  " ' 

"Yes  "  whispered  four  out  of  the  seven. 
"Weil,  I  am  going  to  give  a  'peculiar  knock'  on  that 
door  with  my  sound  hand,  and  you  must  mark  the  effect  it 
has. '  You  needn't  grasp  your  weapons  ;  but  just  keep  your 
eyes  and  ears  open.     Then  will  you  do  whatever  I  ask? 
"We  will,"  they  said,  smiling  at  Steve's  whim. 
Then  the  man  who  had  not  read  romances  for  nothing  stole 
softly  to  the  door,  and  knocked  in  a  "  peculiar  manner." 

''T^r^^^^^^my  book,  "A  Biundkring  Boy."  /"'"^ed  here 
without  a  word  of  permissiot,  from  the  author  or  any  of  the  mythical 
characters  portrayed.—  B.  w.  M. 


Things  Begin  to  get  Interesting. 


293 


ESTING.* 

e  to  a  small, 
ible  hut.  A 
jut  no  person 

'  said  Steve ; 
wounds  have 
ly  get  a  drink 
ng  in." 
/as  advancing 
him  back. 
I  romances  for 
his  forest,  it's 
have  what  is 


nock '  on  that 

rk  the  effect  it 

just  keep  your 

verl  ask?" 

him. 

)r  nothing  stole 

ir  manner." 

.»    Iiiserted  here 
y  of  the  mythical 


Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  a  voice  within  said,  "Well 

""Xve  faced  the  others  and  winked  furiously,  while  he 
reasoned  rapidly  to  thiseffect :  "  Evidently,  here  js  a  nest  o^" 
knaves  The  fellow  on  the  inside  thmks  his  mate  is  in 
daTer!  and  knocks  to  know  whether  it  is  safe  for  him  to  come 

Then  ti.e  voice  within  asked  uneasily,     Jim 

••  Will  "  said  Marmaduke,  leaning  over  the  htter,     we 

are  certainly  on  the  track  of  the  man  who  ^^^^^y^^^J^^^^^ 

"  Oh.  I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  deer.    Will  groaned^ 

Steve  started,  but  collected  himself  in  ^  ";°"»^"\^"^ 

whil;red  to  Jim,  "Come  along,  Jim  ;  this  feUow -nt^^^^^ 

see  yVu.     Now,  be  as  bold  as  a  lion  ;  blow  V^"^  "^^^^^^^^ 

trumpet ;   and  observe  :    '  By  the  great  dog-star,  it  s  Jim  . 

'T-anaged  to  do  this  ;  but  he  basely  muttered  that  he 
wasn't  broueht  up  for  a  circus  clown. 

Then  come  in';  the  door  isn't  locked  ;  "  the  voice  withm 

said  harshly,  but  unhesitatingly. 

Stephen  flung  open  the  door  and  strode  Proudly  mto  the 

hut  closely  followed  by  the  others.     One  scantily  furriished 

room,  in  a  corner  of  which  a  man  lay  on  a  bed,  was  dis- 

c3.     This  man's  look  of  alarm  at  this  sudden  entrance 

filled  Steve  with  exultation. 

.«  What  does  all  this  mean  ?    What  do  you  want  ?      the 
occupant  of  the  bed  demanded. 
"A  glass  of  water,"  said  Steve. 

"  Well,  you  can  get  a  dish  here,  and  there  is  a  spring  out- 
side," with  an  air  of  great  relief. 

"  Is  this  the  man  ?  "  Steve  asked  of  Marmaduke. 

Marmaduke  sadly  r.hook  his  head. 

"  I  am  very  low  with  the  small-pox,"  said  the  unknown, 


i 


J 


294  ^*'"«^^  ^^^'"  *°  ^^'  Interesting. 

"  and  those  of  you  who  have  not  had  it,  nor  have  not  been 

exposed  to  it,  had  better  hurry  out  into  the  open  air." 

This  was  said  quietly  -  apparently,  sincerely. 

The  hunters  were  struck  with  horror.  It  seemed  as  though 
a  chain  of  misfortunes,  that  would  eventually  drag  them  to 
destruction,  was  slowly  closing  around  them.  Small-pox^ 
Exposed  to  that  loathsome  disease  !    They  grew  sick  with 

"  Was  it  for  this  we  went  hunting  ?  "  Charles  groaned.  . 

For  a  few  moments  the  hunters  lost  all  presence  of  mind  ; 
they  neglected  to  rush  out  of  doors ;  they  forgot  that  the 
sick  man  seemed  wrapped  in  suspicion  ;  they  forgot  that  they 
had  gained  admittance  by  stratagem  ;  Steve  forgot  that  he 
was  playing  the  hero. 

A  cry   of    horror    from    Jim    roused    them  from  their 

*°^'^  What  a  fool  I  am  ! "  cried  Henry.  "  I  had  the  small- 
pox when  I  was  a  little  boy  ;  and  now.  to  prove  or  disprove 
this  fellow's  statement,  I  will  run  the  risk  of  taking  it  again. 
The  rest  of  you  may  leave  the  room  or  not ;  just  as  fear,  or 
curiosity,  or  thirst,  or  anything  else,  moves  you.  I  beheve. 
however,  that  there  is  not  the  least  danger  of  contagion. 

"  No,  no  ;  come  out !  "  Mr.  Lawrence  entreated,  not  wish- 
ing to  be  responsible  for  any  more  calamities.     "  Come  out, 

Henry,  and  leave  the  man  alone." 

"  Believe  me,  Mr.I.awrence,Irun  no  risk,"  Henry  declared. 

"I shall—."  ,    '.. 

"  Ha  !  "  shrieked  the  sick  man.     "  Lawrence  ?    Did  you 

say  Law — ."  ,  ^       ,      .  „ , 

He  stopped  abruptly.      But  it  was  too  late;  he    had 

betrayed  himself.  . ,        •!.  ji 

"Yes,  my  man;  I  said  Lawrence  ! "  Henry  said  fexcitedly. 


Things  Begin  to  get  Interesting. 


395 


ire  not  been 
i  air. 

ed  as  though 

rag  them  to 

Small-pox  ! 

ew  sick  with 

!  groaned.  . 
ice  of  mind ; 
got  that  the 
■got  that  they 
irgot  that  he 

a  from  their 

id  the  small- 
ire  or  disprove 
king  it  again, 
ist  as  fear,  or 
u.  I  believe, 
if  contagion." 
ited,  not  wish- 
"  Come  out, 

[enry  declared. 

ice?    Did  you 

late;  he   had 

said  fexcitedly. 


'«  Come,  now  ;  explain  yourself.     Say  no  more  about  small- 
i,ox-yfe  are  not  to  be  deceived  by  any  such  pretence. 

The  sick  man  looked  Uncle  Dick  full  in  the  face ;  groaned  ; 
shuddered  ;  covered  his  face  with  the  bed-clothes  ;  and  then, 
villain-like,  fell  to  muttering. 

After  these  actions,  Jim  himself  was  not  afraid. 
"Mr.  Lawrence,  Will,  all  of  you,"  Henry  said  hoar^ly, 
"  I  think  your  mystery  is  about  to  be  unriddled  at  last.    This 
man  can  evidently  furnish  the  missing  link  in  your  history. 
He  is  either  the  secret  enemy,  or  an  accomplice  of  his. 

Uncle  Dick  trembled.     After  all  these  years  was    the 
mystery  to  be  solved  at  last? 

Stephen's  hurt  and  Will's  knee  were  forgotten  in  the  eager- 
ness to  hear  what  this  man  had  to  say.  AH  were  famihar 
with  Uncle  Dick's  story,  so  far  as  he  knew  it  hun.self,  and 
consequently  all  were  eager  to  have  the  "jy^tenous  part 
explained.  The  entire  eight  assembled  round  the  bed-side. 
After  much  inane  muttering  the  sick  man  uncoverea  his 
head,  and  asked  faintly,  "Are  you  Richard  Lawrence? 

"lam."  v^ 

"Were  you  insane  at  one  time,  and  do  you  remember 

Patriarch  Monk  ? "  u»f  i,a« 

"  Yes,  I  was  insane  ;  but  I  know  nothmg  of  what  hap- 
pened then."  ^    ,  ^  .^^^ 
"  Well  I  will  confess  all  to  you.    Mr.  Lawrence,  I  have 
suffered  in  all  these  weary  years -suffered  from  the  agony 

of  remorse."  . 

"  Yes? "  said  Uncle  Dick,  with  a  rising  inflection. 

"  I  will  keep  my  secret  no  longer.    But  who  are  all  these 
young  men?"  glancing  at  the  hunters.  ,   ^.  ^ 

"  They  are  fnends,  who  may  hear  your  story,'   Uncle  Dick 

^*^"'to  begin  with,  I  am  indeed  sick,  but  I  have  not  the 


296  Things  Begin  to  get  Interesting. 

small-pox.     That  was  a  mere  ruse  to  get  rid  of  disagreeable 

callers," 

At  this  Steve  looked  complacent,  and  Henry  looked 
triumphant ;  the  one  pleased  with  his  strategy,  the  other 
pleased  with  his  sagacity. 

At  that  very  instant  quick  steps  were  heard  outside,  and 
then  a  "peculiar  knock"  was  given  on  the  door,  which, 
prudently  or  imprudently,  Steve  had  shut. 

"  It  is  a  man  who  lives  with  me,"  Patriarch  Monk  said  to 
the  hunters.  "We  shall  be  interrupted  for  a  few  minutes, 
but  then  I  will  go  on."     Then  aloud  :  "  You  may  as  well 

come  in,  Jim."  ^  .      j  j 

If  this  was  intended  as  a  warning  to  flee,  it  was  not  heeded, 
for  the  door  opened,  and  a  man  whom  Will  and  Marmaduke 
recognized  as  the  rogue  who  on  the  previous  day  had  feigned 
a  mortal  wound  in  order  to  steal  their  deer,  strode  into  the 

On  seeing  the  hut  full  of  armed  men,  he  sank  down  hope- 
lesslv  delivered  a  few  choice  ecphoneses,  and  then  exclaimed : 
"Caught  at  last!  Well,  I  might  'a'  known  it  would  come 
sooner  or  later.  They  have  set  the  law  on  my  track,  and  all 
these  fellows  will  help  'em.  Law  behind,  and  what  on  earth 
in  front !  —  I  say,  fellows,  who  are  you  ?  " 

' '  Hunters, ' '  Henry  said  laconically . 

Then  the  new-comer  recognized  Will  and  Marmaduke.  and 
ejaculated,  "  Oh,  I  see  ;  yesterday  my  ring  was  rumed,  end 
now  I'm  ruined  !  " 

The  officer  of  the  law,  whose  nonchalance  had  provoked 
the  hunters  in  the  forenoon,  was  indeed  behind,  and  soon  he, 
also,  entered  the  hut,  which  was  now  filled. 

"Just  like  a  romance,"  Steve  muttered.  "All  the  charac- 
ters, good  and  bad.  most  unaccountably  meet,  and  then  a 
general  smash-up  takes  place,  after  which  the  good  dnfl  off 


Things  Begin  to  get  Interesting. 


297 


lisagreeable 

iry    looked 
r,  the  other 

jutside,  and 
loor,  which, 

lonk  said  to 
ew  minutes, 
may  as  well 

s  not  heeded, 

Marmaduke 

r  had  feigned 

ode  into  the 

:  down  hope- 
;n  exclaimed: 
would  come 
track,  and  all 
nrhat  on  earth 


rmaduke,  and 
IS  ruined,  end 

had  provoked 
,  and  soon  he, 

Ml  the  charac- 

:t,  and  then  a 

good  drift  ofif 


in  one  direction,  to  felicity,  and  the  bad  in  another,  to  infeli- 
city— unless  they  shoot  themselves.  Now,  I  hope  Patriarch 
and  Jim  won't  shoot  themselves  !  " 

"Jim  Hornet,"  said  the  officer,  "  I  am  empowered  to 

arrest  you." 

"I  surrender,"  the  captured  one  said  sullenly.  "You 
ought  to  have  arrested  me  before.  I'd  give  back  the  deer, 
if  I  could  ;  but  I  sold  it  last  night,  and  that's  the  last  of 

it." 

"  That  will  do,"  the  officer  said  severely. 

******* 

The  hunters  now  held  a  short  conversation,  and  it  was 
decided  that  Mr.  Lawrence  and  Henry  should  stay  to  hear 
what  Patriarch  Monk  had  to  say  for  himself,  but  that  the 
others  should  go  on  with  Will  and  Steve  to  the  surgeon's. 

The  officer  of  the  law  thought  it  might  be  necessary  for 
him  to  stay  in  his  official  capacity,'  and  so  he  took  a  seat  and 
listened,  while  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  Jim  Hornet. 
And  the  confession  he  heard  was  worth  listening  to. 
The  hut  was  soon  cleared  of  all  save  the  five ;  and  the 
six  first  introduced  to  the  reader  were  again  together,  and  on 
their  way  to  the  surgeon's. 

"  Well,"  said  Will,  "  it  seems  I  have  lost  my  deer  ;  but  I 
have  the  comforting  thought  of  knowing  that  the  rascal  will 
receive  the  punishment  he  deserves." 

"How  strange  it  all  is,"  said  Marmaduke,  "that  your 
uncle  should  stumble  on  the  solution  of  his  mystery  when 
he  least  expected  it ;  and  that  you  could  not  find  the  thief 
when  you  looked  for  him,  but  as  soon  as  you  quit,  we  made 
straight  for  his  house." 

"No,"  Steve  corrected  good-humoredly,  "that  isn't  it; 
but  as  soon  as  I  took  to  playing  the  part  of  a  hero  of 


298  Things  Begin  to  get  Interesting. 

romance,  'events  came  on  us  with  the  rush  of  a  whirl- 

^'t^ng  the  wounded  and  the  unwounded  hunters  to  pur- 
su^thlr  wly  through  the  forest,  we  shall  -turn  to  the  hut 
and  overhear  Patriarch  Monk's  long-delayed  confession^ 

L  sTn  as  the  door  was  shut  on  the  six  hunter,  he  began^ 
His  fa^was  turned  towards  Mr.  Lawrence,  but  hts  eyes  were 
fixed  on  rpillow.  which  was  hidden  by  the  coverlet ;  and 
hU  punciuatL  was  so  precise,  his  style  so  eloquen    and 
^S  and  his  story  so  methodical,  -mpl  -ted^^^^^^^^^^^ 
cal   that  once  or  twice  a  hornble  suspicion  tha^Jie  was 
reading  the  entire  confession  out  of  a  novel  concealed  m  the 
bed  flashed  across  Mr.  Lawrence's  mind, 
""if  tWs  dreadful  thought  should  occur  to  the  leader  he 
can   mentally   insert    the    confession  in  double  quotation 
marks. 


..I  now  surrender  myself  to  o^^'^^g^.J^^^^'^^'T.^f  "^ 
.  -1  «„»«  alftdlv  — for  I  can  endure  this  way.  of  life  no 
r^.'7oS«  me,  ffyou  can,  Mr.  Uw^nce,  for  .  have 
been  tortured  with  remorse  in  all  these  years. 

The  villain's  story  was  ended;  and  Uncle  Dkk.  Henry 
Jofficer  of  the  law.  and  Jim  Hornet,  fetched  a  sigh  of 

''They  felt  extremely  sorry  for  the  sick  man  who  had  con- 
fessed L  eloquently  and  prolixly;  but  Mr.  Lawrence  was  not 
'XnuVS"  witl  pity  as  to  plead  for  his  rele^^m  pun- 
ishment.    In  fact,  he  had  nothing  to  say  -g-"*;^  t^«  ^^^ 
taking  its  course  with  him.     However,  he  spoke  kindly. 

Mr.  Monk."  he  said.  "  I  forgive  you  freely,  for   t  was 
my  own  foolishness  that  led  me  into  your  power.     As  for  the 


■WiMB 


Things  Begin  to  get  Interesting. 


899 


if  a  whirl- 

ers  to  pvir- 
to  the  hut 
ission. 
s  he  began. 
s  eyes  were 
Aerlet ;  and 
jquent  and 
,  and  tragi- 
bat  he  was 
Baled  in  the 


monev,  it  seemed  fated  that  it  should  melt  away,  and  to-day 
not  one  cent  of  it  remains.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  in  a  better 
frame  of  mind,  sir  ;  but  I  must  leave  you  now,  to  see  how  it 
fares  with  my  nephew.     Come,  Henry." 

"And  jF*?"^  story  ?  "  asked  the  confessor,  with  a  curious 

and  eager  air. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Monk,"  said  Uncle  Dick;  "but  »iy story 
would  seem  prosaic,  exceedingly  prosaic,  after  yours.     Good 

day."  ,       . 

And  he  and  Henry  brutally  strode  out  of  the  hut,  leaving 
the  ex-villain  "  tortured  "  with  curiosity. 


i  reader,  he 
e  quotation 


ice, —  volun- 
ly.of  life  no 
!.  ifor  I  have 


Dick,  Henry, 
ed  a  sigh  of 


rho  had  con- 
rence  was  not 
;ase  from  pun- 
ast  the  law's 
te  kindly. 
:ly,  for  it  was 
r.     As  for  the 


300 


Signs  of  Spring. 


SIGNS  OF  SPRING. 

Signs  of  spring  couie  thick  and  fast ; 

The  toboggan  is  neglected, 
Snowshoes,  too,  aside  are  cast, 
And  lawn-tennis  resurrected. 

The  snow  shoveler's  work  is  o'er  — 
Let  us  thirst  not  for  his  gore, 
He  will  trouble  us  no  more, 
Careless  lives  he  on  his  fortune. 

Soon  >we'll  read  of  baseball  nine  ; 

Jokes  on  blanket-suits  will  languish ; 
Excursion  jokes  fall  into  line ; 
■      Ice-cream  horrors  swell  the  anguish. 
Soon  will  gas-bills  take  a  drop  (?) 
Roaring  furnace  fires  will  stop, 
And  the  smart  house-cleaner's  mop 
Will  despotic  make  its  circuit. 

Small  boys  hie  them  to  the  brook, 
With  intent  to  get  a  wetting ; 
Scaly  fish  they  joyous  hook ; 

Hard  at  rafts  they  labor,  sweating. 
Soon  the  frog  will  serenade 
From  the  friendly  barricade 
Of  the  dank  pond's  gruesome  shade 
Those  who  do  not  wish  to  hear  him. 


?) 

lop 


Signs  of  Spring. 

Loud,  in  tranquil  safety  placed, 

Fiends  will  practice  on  the  co*        ; 
Brisk  the  small  boy  will  be  chased 
By  the  wild,  bellig'rent  hornet. 

Soon  the  bumble-bee  will  come, 
With  the  wasp,  his  huffish  chum  ; 
Soon  will  blithe  mosquitoes  hum. 
Ere  our  blood  they  cheerful  sample. 

The  dog-catchers  with  their  lures, 

Scooping  dogs  with  gay  abandon, 
Will  try  hard  — the  blackamoors  — 
Our  pet  dog  to  lay  their  hand  on. 
Ere  the  sad-eyed  Jersey  tramp. 
With  his  lies  of  field  and  camp, 
Cau  his  chestnuts  quite  revamp. 
Watch-dogs  fierce  renew  acquaintance. 

Sentimental  servant  girls 

Now  will  have  a  little  leisure 
To  trick  out  in  monstroiis  curls  — 

Trick'ry  in  which  they  take  pleasure. 
Then  these  giddy  women  fops 
Will  buy  finery  in  the  shops. 
Thus  to  bring  to  time  the  cops 
Who  have  courted  them  all  winter. 

Some  spring  poet  soon  will  die, 

Martyr  to  his  rhymes  atrocious, 
Slain,  ere  he  can  raise  a  cry, 
By  an  editor  ferocious. 

Soon  the  peddler  on  bis  round 
At  the  door  will  gaily  pound. 
And  the  old,  familiar  sound 
Will  remind  us  spring  is  coming. 


301 


liade 
I. 


Mmg^m^^; 


302 


Our  O^ew  <iirl. 


OUR  NEW  GIRL. 

SHE  looked  as  if  she  would  be  equal  to  any  emergency, 
in  so  far  as  mere  physical  strength  was  concerned  ;  so 
we  decided  to  give  her  a  trial.     We  were  a  quiet  family  of 
four,  and  not  very  exacting. 

Our  expectations  were  grandly  realized.  The  most 
determined  tramp  would  meekly  apologize  for  ringmg  the 
bell  when  her  Amazonian  figure  appeared  at  the  door  in 
answer  to  the  summons.  Even  a  bailiff,  who  came  around 
with  fire  in  his  cock  eye  to  collect  an  account  of  seventy- 
five  cents,  only  stayed  to  parley  with  her  for  the  brief  space 
of  two  minutes,  when  he,  nlso,  beat  an  inglorious  retreat. 
For  once,  he  had  met  his  match. 

Going  to  the  door  was  her  supreme  accomplishment. 
She  took  a  ring  as  a  personal  insult ;  but  would  drop  what- 
ever she  might  Vje  at,  and  striding  to  the  door,  would  throw 
it  wide  open,  stand  squarely  blocking  the  way.  and  glare  Pt 
the  unfortunit  person  outside  with  a  gorgon  look  of 
haughty  defiance.  If  running  water  from  the  hot  water 
tap  in  the  kitchen,  she  would  inarch  to  the  door  if  a  ring 
came,  leaving  the  tap  wide  open.  But  we  knew  she  would 
never  be  detained  long  at  the  door. 

It  was  not  a  week,  however,  before  she  began  to  receive 
calls  herself  from  her  numerous  friends  ;  and  in  these  cases  the 
interview  never  lasted  less  than  fifteen  minutes.  A  period 
in  our  history  hinges  upon  such  a  call,  one  day  when  I  had 
gone  upstairs  to  take  a  hot  bath.    Just  as  I  stepped  into 


Oiir  (TyVw  Girl. 


30S 


mergency, 
lerned ;  so 
c  family  of 

rhe  most 
nging  the 
le  'door  in 
tne  around 
)f  seventy- 
brief  space 
lus  retreat. 

iplishment. 
drop  what- 
ould  throw 
nd  glare  pt 
tn  look  of 
hot  water 
)r  if  a  ring 
f  she  would 

1  to  receive 
ese  cases  the 
A  period 
when  I  had 
stepped  into 


the  bath,  our  new  girl  opened  the  hot  water  tap  in  the 
sink  below.  "Caesar!"  I  groaned,  "  if  that  bell  should 
ring  !  "  Ring  !  ting  !  ting  !  went  the  bell,  surely  enough  ; 
and  our  new  girl  hurried  to  the  door,  leaving  the  tap 
below  wide  open.  The  ringer  was  a  bosom  friend  of  hers, 
and  as  no  one  came  to  my  rescue,  by  the  time  they  had 
exchanged  their  mutual  confidences  about  their  mistresses' 
affairs,  my  hot  bath  was  gone  up.  This  brought  on  such 
a  cold  that  I  was  constrained  to  remain  in  my  room  for 
nearly  a  week. 

The  first  morning  I  felt  well  enough  to  get  about  the 
house,  the  new  girl,  in  opening  the  shutters,  clumsily  knocked 
one  of  them  down  into  the  street.  It  so  happened  that  an 
old  African  rag-and-bottle  fiend  was  trundling  his  push-cart 
along  the  sidewalk  at  this  inopportune  moment.  The  shut- 
ter rattled  down  so  close  behind  him  that  he  ran  headlong 
into  a  hydrant  — his  cargo  littered  the  walk  and  the  boule- 
vard —  and  he  keeled  over  his  cart  all  in  a  heap. 

I  saw  this  from  a  window,  and  hastened  to  the  door  — 
which  was  very  rash  and  unfortunate  on  my  part.  The  old 
fellow  picked  himself  up  slowly,  and  looked  behind  him  in 
a  very  scared  and  deprecating  way.  On  seeing  me  at  the 
door  and  the  grinning  girl  at  the  upper  window,  he  heaved 
a  sigh  of  relief,  and  exclaimed  :  "  By  gosh,  boss  !  I  thought 
it  was  a  p'liceman  a-goin'  ter  pull  me  fer  runnin'  this  heah 
outfit  er  mine  on  the  sidewalk." 
•'Are  you  hurt  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Well,  between  you  and  me,  I  was  pretty  badly  scart.  I 
do  feel  shook  up,  now  I  comes  to  raise  myself,  worse' n  if  a 
gris'-mill  had  kersploded  ;  and  jes"  look  at  them  goods  !  " 

"Too  bad."  I  said  soothingly,  and  turned  to  step  back 
into  the  house. 

"  Hoi'  on,  boss  !  "  the  old  fellow  cried  out.     "  Let  us  es- 


.m^ 


304  Our  CyVw  Girl. 

termate  the  damiclKe  on  the  spot,  so'st  there  wun't  be  no 
hahd  feelin's  arisin'  about  this  misfortune,  and  no  unfair  ad- 
vantage took  by  either  one  er  us ;  and  so'st  you,  bein'  a 
hones'  man,  can  recoup  me  ter  once." 

"  Will  forty  cents  '  recoup'  you,  old  man,  if  I  throw  in 
five  more  for  your  loss  of  time?"  I  asked  haughtily. 

"No,  boss,  it  wun't;  but  seein"  you're  consposed  to  ack 
like  a  gennerman  about  it,  and  bein'  as  I'm  handy  with 
tools,  and  not  above  doin'  a  little  repairin'  myself  in  a  case 
like  this  heah,  we  will  estermate  that  my  outfit  is  damidged 
to  the  tune  er  two  dollahs.  That's  the  way  I  figger  it  out, 
boss  •  but  I'm  willin«5  ter  make  a  preduction  of  twenty-five 
per  cent,  in  your  case,  as  its  sorter  agin  the  grain  fer  me  ter 
be  downright  hahd  on  a  gennerman,  anyhow,  bein'  as  I  was 
brung  up  a  gennerman,  myself:'  ' 

I  told  him  that  he  had  found  his  vocation  at  last,  and 
that  I  had  no  doubt  he  could  outjew  the  ablest  Russian 
Israelite  in  his  trade.  Then  I  weakly  compromised  on  a 
dollar  and  ten  cents,  and  hurriedly  retreated  into  the  house, 
as  a  crowd  of  gamins  was  beginning  to  collect,  eager  at  the 
prospect  of  a  free  circus.  ^ 

I  found  that  the  shatter  was  "  damaged  to  the  tune      ot 
fifteen  cents,  and  I  felt  all  broken  up.     But  what  was  my 
consternation,  next  day,  to  find  that  a  mischievous  reporter, 
who  lived  across  the  way,  put  a  startling  paragraph  in  his 
paper  to  the  effect  that  an  inoffensive  and  much-esteemed 
old  colored  citizen,  trundling  a  homely  but  respectable  cart 
peacefully  along  the  public  highway,  had  been  assaulted  by 
an  arrogant  householder,  and  most  shamefully   handled 
•<  But  "  pleasantly  concluded  the  paragraph.  "  this  man  of 
violence  was  mulcted  to  the  tune  of  $200,  which  will  prob- 
ably cause  him  in  future  to  keep  at  a  respectful  distance 
from  guileless  old  men  of  the  push-cart  fraternity." 


Our  O^'irui  Girl, 


:.o5 


n't  be  no 
unfair  ad- 
u,  bein'  a 

throw  in 
htily. 
led  to  ack 
andy  with 
in  a  case 
daniidged 
jger  it  out, 
;wenty-five 
I  fer  me  ter 
n'  as  I  was 

kt  last,  and 
ist  Russian 
mised  on  a 
>  the  house, 
Eiger  at  the 

le  tune"  of 
lat  was  my 
lus  reporter, 
raph  in  his 
ch-esteemed 
>ectable  cart 
fissaulted  by 
ly  handled, 
this  man  of 
:h  will  prob- 
tful  distance 


Of  course  this  mean  joke  was  understnocl  and  apprecialed, 
not  alone  by  my  intimate  friends,  but  by  those  who  had  wit- 
nessed the  mishaps  of  the  old  tramp  ana  my  parley  with  him. 
And  by  all  these  it  nuis  appreciated-  for  many  long  and 
weary  days.  The  great  army  of  frierds  —  of  all  ages,  and 
sexes,  and  colors,  and  creeds,  and  conditions  —  that  our  new 
girl  would  seem  to  have  accumulated  in  the  course  of  her 
life,  likewi.se  appeared  to  understand  and  appreciate  the 
affair. 

The  day  after  this  unfriendly  encounter  of  mine  with  the 
swindling  son  of  Africa,  my  mother  directed  the  new  girl 
to  drive  a  strong  nail  into  the  wall  in  the  dining-room,  for 
the  purpose  of  securing  a  bracket.  In  half  an  hour's  time 
we  heard  a  noise  in  that  dining-room  that  shook  the  founda- 
tions of  the  house,  and  suggested  the  building  of  a  World's 
Fair.  We  dashed  into  the  room,  and  lo !  there  stood  the 
new  girl  on  the  sewing-machine,  wielding  a  neighbor's  ten- 
pound  hammer,  and  trying  hard  to  pound  into  the  wall  a 
Virginia  Midland  railroad  spike,  which  she  had  fished  up  in 
the  alley.     Truly,  she  was  energetic,  but  too  impttuons. 

Two  days  after  this  incident  I  was  called  to  the  door  at 
the  hour  of  noon  by  the  new  girl,  who  said,  with  a  look  of 
genuine  alarm  and  horror,  that  "some  man  was  asking  for 
me,  all  tied  up  together  and  crunched-up-looking,  like  as  if 
he  had  fell  offen  a  house  afire." 

Full  of  curiosity  to  see  what  manner  of  man  it  could  be 
that  had  daunted  even  our  new  girl,  I  inconsiderately  went 
to  the  door  without  stopping  to  make  any  inquiries,  and  had 
hard  work  to  recognize  my  friend  of  the  damaged  push-cart. 
His  right  hand  was  painted  livid  with  iodine.  His  left 
arm  hung  in  a  sling,  and  was  bound  with  cloth  —  mostly  ven- 
erable pantaloons,  with  an  outside  veneer  of  dismal,  greasy 
cotton—  till  it  was  decidedly  larger  than  a  stove-pipe.     Hi» 


3o6 


Our  tJ^ew  Girl. 


stomach  (which  he  evidently  considered  the  seat  of  hfe) 
stood  out  into  empty  space  like  the  smock  of  an  emigrant 
boy  loaded  with  stolen   apples ;   and  was  braced    guyed, 
stayed,  and  kept  from  falling  off  him,  by  the  voluminous 
folds  of  four  different  comforters,  in  various  stages  of  un- 
wholesomeness.     Besides  these,  his  stomach  was  belayed  by 
two  encircling  pairs  of  suspenders.     Verily,  he  must  have 
harnessed  on  the  entire  stock  of  a  rag  warehouse,  and  would 
have  afforded  no  inconsiderable  load  for  an  easy-gomg  horse 
to  pull      He  took  up  as  much  room  as  a  drunken  man  with 
a  wheel-barrow,  and  would  have  crowded  an  alderman  com- 
pletely off  the  sidewalk. 

"  Well,  boss,"  he  began,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  as  if  he 
must  have  swallowed  a  piece  of  ragged  ore,  "  that  night  after 
I  seen  you  I  was  took  aw-iul  sick.  The  doctah  says  I  m  ter- 
rible bad,  and  that  I  mus'  go  ter  the  infermery  as  soon  s  I 
seen  you  agin.  The  doctahs  ecks-zamined  me,  and  foun 
that  I'm  damidged  m-/.r-«a/-/y  ter  the  tune  er  eight  hun- 
dred doUahs.  Now,  that's  pretty  tough,  am't  it,  boss? 
and  he  hitched  his  supports  and  looked  very  sad. 

"  Bein'  ez  me  and  you  air  both  jus'  men,"  he  continued 
"I'm  willing  ter  settle  this  heah  affair  without  any  legul 
perceedings,  'coz  I  doan'  want  ter  put  you  ter  any  trouble ; 
(here  he  affected  to  be  caught  by  a  terrible  spasm)  and  so  I 
come  erround  heah,  all  weak  and  a-totterin'  ez  I  am,  ter  say 
that  I'll  compermise  with  you  in  er  quiet  way  fer  five  hun- 
dred doUahs,  spot  cash.  And  that's  erbout  the  liberalist 
offah  I  ever  heerd  tell  of,  boss." 

I  listened  calmly,  with  an  inscrutable  look  that  beguiled 
the  old  hypocrite  to  continue  his  argument.  He  went  on  to 
say,  further,  that  if  I  would  heed  a  friendly  warning,  I  would 
gladly  compromise ;  as  if  he  didn't  collect  that  money  to  buy 
patent  medicine  and  doctors'  medicine,  he  would  surely  die. 


*«"* 


Our  V^ew  Girl. 


307 


at  of  life) 
I  emigrant 
:d,  guyed, 
oluminous 
ges  of  un- 
belayed  by 
must  have 
and  would 
joing  horse 
1  man  with 
;rman  com- 

ied  as  if  he 

t  night  after 

ays  I'm  ter- 

as  scon's  I 

,  and  foun' 

eight  hun- 

it,  boss?" 

e  continued, 
It  any  legul 
my  trouble ; 
sm)  and  so  I 
[  am,  ter  say 
er  five  hun- 
;he  liberalist 

hat  beguiled 
[e  went  on  to 
ling,  I  would 
money  to  buy 
Id  surely  die. 


But  the  money  would  be  collected,  all  the  same  ;  for  he  had 
seventeen  able-bodied  heirs,  who  would  never  give  me  a 
moment's  peace  till  they  had  collected  the  full  amount  of 
eight  hundred  dollars. 

He  next  proceeded  to  say  that  if  I  could  stand  the  expense 
of  a  great  public  trial,  he  would  willingly  unbosom  all  his 
frightful  wounds  and  "damages"  to  a  sympathetic  court. 
But  he  believed  I  would  spare  myself  this  frightful  loss  of 
time  and  money. 

It  so  happened  that  the  Water-works  Department  had 
that  very  forenoon  set  about  replacing  the  hydrant  against 
which  he  had  collided  with  a  new  one  entire.  Old  age  and 
last  year's  frosts  had  rendered  this  hydrant  cranky  and  un- 
reliable.    The  rigors  of  another  winter  might  destroy  it. 

Perceiving  my  opportunity,  I  slowly  and  with  much  dig- 
nity pointed  with  three  fingers  to  the  dismantled  hydrant, 
and  said  harshly:  "Rash  criminal!  the  relentless  arm  of 
outraged  city  by-law  is  waiting  to  snatch  you  up,  and  make 
a  fearful  example  of  you  !  If  you  had  but  dimly  compre- 
hended the  auful  pains  and  penalties  inflicted  ujwn  those 
who  demolish,  impinge  on,  or  tamper  with  the  city  hydrants, 
—  thus  endangering  property  and  hampering  the  work  of  the 
city  watering-carts, — you  would  at  once  have  set  out  by  rail 
for  Canada.  As  it  is  now,  once  you  recover  sufficiently  to  be 
able  to  work  hard  for  a  living,  the  city  will  provide  you  with 
no  light  employment  in  the  city  jail;  and  the  prosperous 
business  which  you  are  building  up  will  go  to  the  dogs.  I 
am  confident  that  a  repudiator  of  your  ubiquitary  oneirom- 
ancy  will  at  once  solecize  the  invulnerability  of  the  plati- 
tude. I  wish  further  to  impress  upon  you  the  indiffisrentiated 
vitiosity  and  rhinoplastic  incompatibility  which  have  prede- 
termiuedly  crystallized  the  unctuousness  of  your  ambiguous 
and  rodomont  persiflage. ' ' 


308 


Our  tJ^ew  Girl 


This  bloodthirsty  and  pompous  bluster  was  not  without 
its  eflect.  The  old  African  quailed  under  it,  and  I  continued : 
"Th'nknot  to  work  upon  my  sympathies;  for  since  this 
superannuation  of  a  city  hydrant  has  occurred,  before  my 
very  door,  I  am  steeled  to  pity  and  sworn  to  vengeance  ! 
Again  the  old  man  quailed,  and  I  wound  up  by  say»"g  ^^^^ 
as  a  former  Indian  hunter  and  fighter  under  Wi  d  Bill,  I 
could  perceive  that  his  "damages"  would  not  reahze  three 

cents  on  the  dollar. 

The  old  ruin,  now  thoroughly  alarmed,  gladly  compro- 
mised by  accepting  an  order  on  our  druggist  for  a  bottle  ot 
stomach  bitters  and  a  bottle  of  hair-oil.  .    «,  j 

The  wicked  old  chap  looked  so  woebegone  as  he  shuffled 
off  that  I  relented  so  far  as  to  hold  out  a  promise  that  he  and 
his  family  should  have  all  our  soap-grease,  rags,  bones,  and 
bottles,  free  to  the  fifth  generation.  But  I  stipulated  that  he 
should  never  levy  on  my  pocket-book  again,  and  that,  so 
long  as  he  remained  out  of  jail,  he  should  give  our  new  girl 
as  wide  a  berth  as  a  Gattling  gun. 

He  tried  to  look  grateful,  but  said  I  wasn't  acting  right 
through  like  a  ' '  gennerman. ' '     I  warned  him  not  to  bother 
me  about  it  if  a  street  car  should  run  over  him  on  his  way 
home;  and  so  we  parted.    The  two  workmen  now  came  back 
to  the  hydrant,  and  he  slouched  away  with  amazmg  agility. 
The  very  next  day  our  new  girl  set  the  kitchen  ou  fire,  so 
carelessly  as  to  have  invalidated  my  insurance  policy.   I  saw 
clearly  that  she  was  likely  to  run  some  one  into  an  untimely 
grave,  and  myself  into  the  State's  prison  or  the  poor-house. 
So  we  made  her  up  a  purse  of  ten  dollars,  bought  her  a  scalp- 
er's ticket  over  the  St.  Paul,  and  persuaded  her  to  go  and 
take  up  land  in  North  Dakota.     We  have  since  heard  that 
she  is  doing  well,  "but  that  no  one  has  had  the  rashness  to 

,    marry  her. 


it  without 
ontinued : 
since  this 
before  my 
geance  !  " 
ayitig  that 
^ild  Bill,  I 
alize  three 

y  compro- 
a  bottle  of 

lie  shuffled 
that  he  and 
bones,  and 
ited  that  he 
nd  that,  so 
ur  new  girl 

icting  right 
)t  to  bother 
on  his  way 
19  came  back 
dng  agility, 
n  ou  fire,  so 
jlicy.    I  saw 
an  untimely 
;  poor-house, 
t  her  a  scalp- 
r  to  go  and 
e  heard  that 
;  rashness  to 


Our  U^ew  Girl. 


309 


I  thought  I  had  shaken  off  the  enterprising  accumulator 
of  rags  and  bottles.  But  about  two  mouths  after  his  last 
appeal  to  me,  we  were  suddenly  besieged  one  day  by  no  fewer 
than  seven  tramps,  for  free  soap-grease,  etc.,  etc. — evidently 
some  of  the  old  fellow's  able-bodied  heirs.  That  idle  promise 
to  him  was  a  fatal  mistake  on  my  part,  for  he  took  it  seriously. 
It  wasn't  so  much  a  question  of  loss  of  revenue  from  so.ip- 
grease,  but  now  that  our  new  girl's  sphere  of  action  had  been 
enlarged,  who  would  scare  away  these  fiends  from  the  door? 
I  plotted  to  secure  the  services  of  a  couple  of  bowelless  bull- 
dogs— . 

But  if  the  old  man  himself  should  come  around  again  ! 

One  happy  day  we  decided  that  the  climate  of  Washington 
wasn't  cold  enough  to  suit  us,  and  we  removed  to  Georgia. 


«/?  Smoker  to  his  Pipe. 


SMOKER  TO   HIS  PIPE.* 
(by  a  non-smoker.) 

GoNK,  as  a  rain-maker's  snow-storm, 

Cracked,  and  I'll  smoke  you  no  more  ; 

From  this  sad  hour  must. I  learn  to 
Pull  at  clay  pipes,  with  lips  sore. 

Gone,  as  a  slain  poet's  hunger. 

Spoilt,  as  Election-killed  scheme  ; 

While  scoffers  doubted  I  smoked  you  — 
Smoked  you,  as  engines  pufif  steam ! 

Gone,  with  your  nicotine  riches. 

Smashed,  on  a  day  when  I'm  broke ; 

Better  I'd  never  attempted 

In  verdant  boyhood  to  smoke. 

Somewhat  'twould  lessen  my  troubles 
Could  I  get  credit  for  tripe ; 

Somewhat,  could  I  always  borrow 
Matches,  tobacco,  and  pipe. 

Gone,  as  a  wreath  of  cigar-smoke. 
Gone— but  not  long  I'm  alone; 

Soon  will  my  quarrelsome  dunners 
Drop  in  to  chant  me  their  moan. 

Could  I  but  know  they'd  come  loaded 
With  pipes,  tobacco,  and  yarns, 

Gladly  their  comp'ny  I'd  sigh  for. 
As  Scotchmen  sigh  for  their  tarns. 


*  See  p?ge  loo. 


e; 


^  U^igbt  with  Ghosts. 


A  NIGHT  WITH  GHOSTS. 

Onk  iiigbt,  in  a  haunted  chamber, 
I  woke,  past  the  midnight  hour, 

And  saw,  with  a  nunibiug  horror, 

Weird  forms  by  the  hearth-stone  cower, 

Scarce  human,  yet  strangely  life-like 
In  actions  and  gestures,  while 

They  spoke  in  a  voiceless  nnirniur, 
That  better  concealed  their  guile. 

They  noted,  with  sullen  faces. 

The  spot  where  I  shook  with  fear ; 

Then  sudden,  as  on  a  signal, 

First  one  and  then  all  drew  near. 

As  palsied  I  waited,  helpless. 

The  while  they  so  slowly  came, 

And  wished  I  might  die  or  ever 
I  felt  their  foul  breath  of  flame. 

They  came,  oh,  so  slowly,  slowly; 

They  scowled  in  my  visage  pale. 
Until  I  could  bear  the  torture 

No  more,  and  a  sharp,  fierce  wail 

Burst  loud  from  my  lips,  and  startled 
The  imps  in  their  evil  scheme, 

Who  quick  and  completely  vanished, 
As  though  but  a  gruesome  dream. 


No  more  near  the  witching  midnight 
I'll  junket  on  cheese  and  ham, 

Or  feed  to  a  haughty  stomach 

Burnt  beans  and  a  fossil  clam. 


312 


7be  Letter  that  Came  O^'ot,  etc. 


THE  LETTER  THAT  CAME  NOT- 

AH '  'tis  a  weary  thing  to  sit  and  wait, 

Day  after  day,  t.be  postman  on  h«  round. 
To  start  each  time  the  sharp,  fam.har  sound. 
The  tell-tale  of  this  messenger  of  fate, 

Is  heard,  awak'ning  hope,  each  day  less  great, 
But  which,  in  eVry  loyal  heart,  IS  wound 

About  with  life  and  faith,  till  we  have  found, 
As  most  poor,  trusting  mortals  find,  too  late. 
That  owr  ideal  of  loyalty,  of  love, 

Of  faith,  of  virtues  all.  is  but  encased 
In  human  mould.     Ah  !  goddess  from  above, 
Whom  iTave  worshipped,  could'st  thou  but  have  traced 
A  line  for  me,  who  mourn  thee  as  a  dove. 
Thou  hadst  redeemed  my  life  from  utter  waste! 

-AND  THE  LETTER  THAT  CAME. 

AT  last  there  comes  a  message  from  the  one 

Who  should  have  written  in  the  long  ago,        ^ 
When  life  and  hope  were  buoyant  when  no  snow 
Of  years  had  chilled  my  heart,  and  when  the  sun- 
That  shines  so  warm  and  brilliant  as  we  run, 
^'^tth  even  pace  and  quick,  tj-f  ^j.^^^  IIw 
As  nascent  manhood's  bronght  by  old  Time  s  flow 
Into  the  golden  age  of  twenty-one - 
Theseus  !u«,  seemed  formed  --'^^"^^itT' 
Since  when  he  shines  he's  ma.i's  and  Natures  spur 
To  better  things.    The  years  teach  us  to  fear 
He  rises  but  to  put  mail  trains  astir - 

For  by  this  mail  a  missive  doth  appear 
From  my  old  tailor's  sharp  executor. 


pa* 


tAn  Interview  with  the  Prophets. 


^13 


AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  THE  PROPHETS. 


traced 


^E. 


now 
sun  — 

low, 
i  flow 

's  spur 


THE  probabilities  are  that  nobody  will  get  left  in  pre- 
dicting the  kind   of  weather  we   may  expect   this 
month  of  March,  as  witness  these  conflicting  forecasts  :  The 
settler  from  South  Dakota,  who  pre-empted  his  claim  away 
back  in  the  'sixties,  and  who  knows  more  about  the  idiosyn- 
crasies of  this  particular  month  than  the  office-boy  of  the 
Meteorological  Department,  announces,  with  all  the  vague- 
ness of  an  oracle,  that  there  will  be  "some  right  smart 
flurries  of  snow,  with  considerable  call  for  cough  syrup, 
and  no  end  of  bluster  about  March  winds  and  dust"  — and 
in  this  non-committal  dictum  he  will  come  nearer  the  truth 
than  any  other  of  the  prophets.     Then  the  oldest  inhabitant 
of  Rensselaer  County  will  proclaim,  in  the  emphatic  manner 
of  his  tribe,  that   "there  ain't  goin'  to  be  no  sech  airly 
spring  sence  1871,  when  Benjamin  Fligg  sowed  peas  or.  the 
eighth  of  March;"  while  his  old  maid  sister,  who  has 
resolved  on  matrimony  this  spring,  although  it  is  not  leap- 
year,  and  who  knows  that  proposals  in  the  rural  districts 
need  the  bracing  stimulant  of  a  drive  on  runners  under  the 
keen  and  frosty  moon,  declares  that  the  sleighing  will  last 
till  the  middle  of  April. 

About  the  fourth  of  the  month  an  editor  out  at  Shanty 
Bay,  who  encourages  precocious  literary  effort  in  the  same 


,14  *^"  Interview  with  the  Prophets. 

masterly  way  that  the  Harrison   Cabinet  encouraged  the 
Ch  Han  pretensions,  -namely,  by  determinedly  sUt.ng  on  U 
-will   officially  make  this  announcement,  m  h.s  classical 
and  vigorous  style,  unto  all  peoples  conversant  with  the 
English   language:     "We  speak  i"  ^^^  --""f, ^^ 'f"^, 
with  no  uncertain  sound  respecting  the  sort  of  weather  tha 
S  prosperous    and    intellectual  subscnbers  may  expect 
during  the  current  month.     We  are  always  logical.     We 
are  ever  observant.     We  are  at  all  times  brief.     The  spring 
poetry  sent  us  up  to  date  is  wanting  both  tn  respect  to 
'wV  and  ,«i/r.     It  falls  far  behind  that  inflicted  upon 
u   during  any  previous  year  of  our  editorial  experience.     It 
Ts  p^Tstuff     It  is  mawkish.     It  is  peevishly  puerile  and 
unS^erestingly  unintelligible.     Ergo,  we  argue  a  prolonged 
^"„ter- a  backward  spring -an  inclement  season -an 
Abound  March  !    Reader,  it  is  not  always  May.     Now  is 

THK  TIME  TO  SUBSCRIBE  !  " 

The  recluse  professor  of  Toronto.  Canada,  and  millions  of 
other  awe-struck  people  will  read  and  ponder  the  wise  words 
orthe  Shanty  Bay  editor.     But  the  learned  professor  alone 
will  reply  to  him.     He  will  come  out  with   a  carefully 
written  article  on  Commercial  Union,   m  which  he  wil 
laUsfactorily  prove  that  if  complete  Reciprocity  were  at 
oncf etabll^^^^  between  the  United  States  and  Canada^ 
thefr   "rough,   raw.   and    democratic"    March    might  be 
interchanged  for  a  soft,    southern,  attempered   month,  of 
almost  Florida-like  geniality.  ,      „  .       , 

While  the  stray  Indian  agriculturists  along  the  Mohawk 
Valley  say  they  will  continue  to  farm  for  muskrats  for  two 
fttU  moons  yet,  a  Central-Hudson  freight  conductor  is  morally 

ertalThat  we  needn't  look  for  any  more  March  weather  at 
all  this  year,  except  in  the  almanacs  and  timetables,  because 


■*HI 


e/fw  Interview  with  the  Prophets. 


315 


uraged  the 
ilting  on  it, 
ais  classical 
it  with  the 
ling's  issue 
veather  that 
may  expect 
ogical.     We 

The  spring 
1  respect  to 
iflicted  upon 
perience.  It 
r  puerile  and 
;  a  prolonged 

season  —  an 
ay.     Now  IS 


April  is  within  twenty-four  hours'  run  of  the  Thirtieth-street 

freight  depot. 

In  spite  of  these  varying  speculations,  the  sagacious  small 
boy,  with  the  instinct  of  his  species,  will  see  to  it  that  his 
skates  are  kept  fearfully  and  wonderfully  ground,  and  that 
his  broken  hand-sled  is  promptly  repaired. 

From  all  this,  what  can  we  expect  but  an  average  March? 


id  millions  of 
be  wise  words 
rofessor  alone 
li  a  carefully 
rhich  he  will 
Dcity  were  at 
and  Canada, 
ch  might  be 
ed   month,  of 

the  Mohawk 
skrats  for  two 
ictor  is  morally 
rch  weather  at 
tables,  because 


'Tis  (May. 


TIS  MAY. 

Who  is  it  tpeakB  to  me  with  •mile, 
That  leaps  into  my  very  soul 
And  reads  it,  as  an  open  roll  ? 
Whose  voice,  sweet  as  one  hears  the  toll 
Of  cloister-bell  from  wooded  knoll. 
And  piquant  mouth,  and  dainty  face. 
That  would  a  sylvan  goddess  grace, 
Charm  eye  and  ear,  and  straight  beguile? 

Whose  is  this  darling,  brownie  maid. 
That  'cross  my  pathway  late  hath  strayed? 
•Tis  she,  'tis  May. 

Whose  roguish  eyes  and  close-cropt  curls 
Play  havoc  with  her  vassal,  man. 
That  young  or  old  in  no  way  can 
Escape  those  eyes,  or  'scape  the  ban 
Of  those  dark  locks  the  soft  winds  fan? 
Who  can  but  love,  and  suppliant  press 
This  glorious  sprite  for  one  caress. 
As  to  his  hecrt  the  sharp  shaft  hurts? 

Whose  is  this  darting  little  maid, 
That  with  my  heart  so  sore  hath  played? 
•Tis  May  — whose  May? 

■Tis  May-whose  May?  Ah,  but  to  know! 
Give  me  to  know,  and  I  will  fear 
No  more  her  frenzied  suitors  near ; 
No  more  gaunt  winter,  bleak  and  sere, 
Since  where  May  is,  is  Christmas  cheer.- 
Why  should  I  ask  it,  though,  of  one 
Who  gracious  queens  it,  as  the  sun 
Beams  grandly  down  on  friend  and  foe? 

Yet  could  this  heav'nly,  dazzling  girt 
Vouchsafe  a  mortal  one  pure  curt ! 
Sweet  May!  Loved  May! 


Judith's  Dilemma. 


317 


JUDITH'S  DILEMMA. 


lUDlTH  MARCHEMONT  had  a  score  of  love"   _  She 
J     was  a  beautiful  girl,  but  somewhat  fickle  -  heartless, 

"Tutors  were  resolved  to  win  her:  one,  a  medical 
studLt.  a'o-ntic,  handsome  young  fellow,  with  a  meagre 
income-  the  other,  a  practical  young  man,  the  har  ana 
onTv  s^;  of  a  buri;  old  Illinois  farmer,  whose  ambition  was 
rLTmfadvU  Engineer.  Judith  ^-ied  hers~  >« 
love  with  the  romantic  young  man,  who  -"j^  quotepoetry 
go  into  raptures  over  Shakespeat^-ddn^J^n^^^^ 

rr:^h^::::=--i;-r"S 
-^tsr=err^t}^^ 

himself  on  being  the  great-grandson  of  f^  f ^^^^^"^J^^ 
hero,  and  was  disposed  to  look  down  on  Robert  Richter. 
son  of  a  German  emigrant. 

At  length  matters  came  to  such  a  crisis  that  both  young 
tn.^n  felt  the  time  for  a  direct  proposal  had  come. 

"RoSrt  Richter  bought  a  box  of  delicious  ^n^b^^^^^^^^ 
laboriously  penned    a    little    note    on    P-^-^-f  ^^^^^^^^^^ 
offering  his  hand,  his  heart,  and  his  fortune.     At  least, 
thought  he  did.     His  proposal  ran  in  this  wise  :- 


3i8 


Judith's  Dilmma. 


"Miss  Marciirmont  :-I)ear  girl,  you  know  how  madly 
I  love  you.     I  think  I  have  sufficiently  proved  my  devotion 
to  you.     I  can  not  offer  you  my  heart  in  person,  but  to-day 
I  have  plucked  up  courage  to  do  .so  by  letter.     Sometimes 
I  have  a  moment  of  exquisite  huppiiiess,  thinking  that  you 
must  love  me;  th(  u  again  I  am  goaded  to  madness,  fearing 
that  you  are  only  amused  with  me.     You  have  so  many 
lovers  who  are  worthier,  in  every  respect,  than  I,  that  my 
heart   misgives  mc,  even  now.     But  if  you  can  love  me, 
ever  so  little,  make  me  supremely  happy  by  giving  me  just 
one  word  of  hope,  and   I  will  strive   to  prove  worthy  of 
your  entire  love.     I  do  not  ask  you  to  write  to  me  ;  I  will 
not  intrude  upon  your  time.     All  I  ask  is,  if  you  can  accept 
me,  let  a  little  ribbon  band  of  blue  (your  favorite  color) 
stream  from  your  window  to-morrow  morning,  and  I  will 
post  myself  where  I  can  catch  an  immediate  glimpse  of  it, 
"Your  own  Robert  Richtkr." 

Judith  received  this  note  and  the  box  of  bon-bons  early  in 
the  evening.  A  boy  delivered  them,  but  amorous  Robert 
was  outside  in  the  darknes-s,  hoping  to  catch  even  a  glimpse 
of  the  girl  he  loved  —  which  he  did  not. 

Judith  tore  open  the  box  and  hungrily  pounced  upon  the 
bon-bons.  Then  she  leisurely  opened  the  dainty  note  and 
perused  it.  Her  eyes  sparkled  as  she  read,  and  a  smile 
parted  her  rosy  lips.  But  this  was  not  her  first  offer  of 
marriage;  if  she  accepted  it,  it  would  not  be  her  first 
engagement. 

"Dear  Robert,"  she  murmured  softly,  "how  good  he  is  ! 
Who  would  have  thought  so  grave  a  gentleman  would 
indulge  in  such  romatice  pbout  a  ribbon— a  blue  ribbon! 
Why,  I  should  sooner  expect  Charley  to  be  guilty  of  such 
an  act !     I  wonder  what  I  had  better  do  about  it.     Well,  I 


Judith's  Dilemma. 


319 


liow  madly 

y  devotion 

but  to-day 

Sonietinies 

Ig  that  you 

|e»s,  fearing 

so  many 

I,  that  my 

love  me, 

iig  me  just 

!  worthy  of 

me  ;  I  will 

I  can  accept 

'orite  color) 

and   I  will 

inipsc  of  it. 

ICHTKK." 

)ons  early  in 
rous  Robert 
:n  a  glimpse 

;d  upon  the 
ity  note  and 
and  a  smile 
irst  offer  of 
t)e  her  first 

Bfood  he  is ! 
man  would 
lue. ribbon  ! 
ilty  of  such 
it.     Well,  I 


won't  decide  till  I  consult  mamma.  How  fooli.sh  of  Robert 
to  say  he  would  not  intrude  on  my  time  by  asking  me  to 
write,  when  he  comes  here  an'l  takes  up  my  time  evening 
after  evening!  But  what  good  taste  he  has  in  selecting 
caramels.     I  wonder  what  Charley  would  have  sent?" 

Mamma,  on  being  consulted,  congratulated  her  daughter 
on  her  good  fortune.  By  all  means  Judith  must  accept  this 
offer ;  Robert  would  be  so  good  to  her.  The  mistress  of  a 
happy  home,  with  every  luxury  at  her  command,  and  with 
opportunities  for  foreign  travel,  would  she  not  be  happy  ? 

So  Judith  Marchemont  decided  to  accept  the  old  farmer's 
son.  She  had  plenty  of  time  to  make  up  her  mind,  if  it 
were  a  question  of  doing  so ;  but  having  once  come  to  a 
decision  in  the  matter,  she  troubled  herself  no  more  about 
it,  but  spent  the  evening  munching  her  bon-bons  and 
reading  a  fashionable  novel,  wondering,  once  or  twice,  where 
Charley  could  lie  that  he  did  not  come  in. 

Morning  dawned,  serene  and  balmy.  Judith  ate  the  last 
of  her  bou-bons,  then  opened  a  drawer  full  of  delicate 
ribbons,  and  composedly  selected  one  of  blue. 

"What  a  strange  whim,"  she  mused.  "Let  me  see,  what 
did  he  say?  The  window,  I  believe.  Now,  I've  just 
thought  of  a  lovely  idea !  I'll  tie  it  to  the  bird-cage,  the 
very  cage  he  gave  me,  and  hang  that  out  of  the  window ! 
That  will  please  Robert;  for  he  is  always  referring  to  the  bird 
and  its  cage." 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  Judith  thought  the  ribbon 
had  a  remarkably  pretty  effect,  as  it  fluttered  in  the  morning 
breeze,  and  while  she  was  admiring  it,  she  caught  .sight  of 
Robert  in  the  distance. 

He  bowed  profoundly,  and  then  pretended  to  go  away. 
But  she  noticed  that  he  did  not  go  out  of  sight  of  the 
ribbon. 


320  Judith's  Dilemma. 

Judith  now  discovered  that  Charles  Montgomery-  was 
loitering  on  the  comer,  a  block  up  the  street,  steadfastly 
regarding  the  fluttering  blue  ribbon  —  or  herself. 

"How  provoking  that  he  should  see  me !"  she  murmured ; 
and  instantly  she  took  in  the  cage  and  detached  the  ribbon. 
"  How  is  it  Charley  never  proposed?  "  she  asked  herself. 
"Such  a  scheme  as  this,  now,  would  take  his  fancy. 
Does  he  lack  the  courage,  or  what  is  it?  I  wonder  if  he 
suspected  anything  juSt  now?  " 

Judith  tripped  lightly  down  stairs,  and  told  her  maternal 
counselor  what  she  had  seen. 

"Miss  Judith,"  said  the  housemaid,  "a  boy  brought  a 
parcel  to  the  back  door  last  night,  and  asked  me  to  give  it 
to  you.  I'm  sorry.  Miss  Judith,  but,"  here  she  blushed, 
"Harry  was  in,  and  —  " 

"  Give  it  to  me !  "  said  Judith  eagerly. 
And  she  ran  away  to  her  own  room,  with  a  rectangular 
parcel,  securely  tied  with  a  long  and  strong  cord. 

When  opened,  she  found  Dante's  immortal  poem,  illus- 
trated by  Gustave  Dor6,  in  three  richly-bound  volumes.  Her 
own  name  was  emblazoned  on  a  fly-leaf  in  each  volume,  in 
bold  characters  that  she  knew  at  once  as  Charles  Montgom- 
ery's. 

Beside  her  name  in  the  "  Paradiso"  lay  a  note  addressed 
to  herself.  It  would  have  been  a  sardonic  lover  indeed  that 
would  have  ventured  to  place  a  note  in  any  other  volume 

than  this. 

Judith's  face  blanched  when  she  ran  over  the  note.  Almost 
in  tears,  she  murmured  angrily  : 

"  That  stupid  giri  !  She  is  always  making  some  blunder. 
Oh,  Charley !  Charley !  I'll  have  mamma  send  her  9ff'  this 

very  day ! " 
Charles  Montgomery's  letter  ran  thus  :— 


jjflggjgSJSsimllm 


aery  was 
teadfastly 

urmured ; 
le  ribbon. 
:d  herself, 
lis  fancy, 
der  if  he 

maternal 

brought  a 

to  give  it 

i  blushed, 


ectangular 

aem,  illus- 
imes.  Her 
volume,  in 
Montgom- 

j  addressed 
ndeed  that 
her  volume 

te.   Almost 

ne  blunder, 
her  ofif  this 


Judith's  Dilemma. 


321 


' '  DEAR  Judith  :  —  I  can  endure  suspense  no  longer.  I  love 
you,  Judith,  with  my  whole  heart— passionately,  eternally. 
Will  you  be  my  wife  ?  You  know  ray  dreams  of  ambition  ; 
you  sympathize  with  me  in  them  ;  with  you  to  inspire  me,  I 
should  become  illustrious.  I  can  not  pour  out  my  heart 
as  I  could  were  I  with  you,  but  I  will  call  on  you  tomorrow 
evening,  to  plead  my  cause  and  to  receive  my  fate  at  your 

hands.  ,  . 

"  My  dearest,  I  can  not  wait  so  long.  If  you  would  be 
my  guiding  star,  appear  a  moment  at  your  boudoir  window 
when  you  see  me  at  the  intersection  of  the  Avenue  to-morrow 
morning.  "  Your  devoted  slave, 

"CHARI.KS  L.  Montgomery. 

'  •  Am  I  engaged  to  both  ? ' '  Judith  asked  herself.  "  I  cer- 
tainly am  engaged  to  Robert,  and  Charles  as  certainly  be- 
lieves me  engaged  to  him  !  Haw  unfortunate  this  is  !  My 
head  is  going  to  ache  ;  I  know  it  is.  And  Charles  is  coming 
in  this  evening  !  What  was  he  thinking  of  just  now,  and  is 
it  possible  they  saw  each  other  ?  " 

Then  she  took  up  one  of  the  volumes,  and  reverently 

turned  the  leaves. 

"What  exquisite  taste  Charles  has,"  she  soliloquized. 
"  He  knows  exactly  what  will  please  me,  and  yet  it  is  only 
a  short  time  that  I  have  known  him.  What  is  a  box  of 
confectionery,  even  of  the  choicest  kind,  compared  with 
books  worthy  of  Dora's  art?  And  he  knows  I  like  sugar- 
plums, too,  and  buys  only  the  best.  What  do  I  care  for 
Robert's  money  ?  "  . 

Judith  ran  down  stairs,  with  a  poor  appetite  for  breakfast. 
The  meal  over,  she  held  another  consultation  with  her 
mother. 


Judith's  Dilemma. 

Mrs.  Marchemont  was  troubled.  Clearly,  Robert  was  the 
better  catch  ;  clearly,  Judith  favored  Charles. 

"I  don't  see  what  I  am  going  to  do,"  Judith  said  fret- 
fully. "Charles  is  so  handsome  and  gifted,  and  Robert 
appears  so  common-place  beside  him." 

"Yes,  Judith,"  said  her  mother  gently,  "but  Robert  has 
a  strong  mind,  rooted  good  principles,  and— and  a  fine  prop- 
erty to  recommend  him." 

"  Minor  considerations,  to  me,"  said  Judith.  Then,  with 
a  smile:  "Here  I  am,  accidentally  engaged  to  two  gentle- 
men, at  liberty  to  choose  between  them,  and  more  undecided 
than  ever  !  What  a  ridiculous  situation  !  I  do  wish  young 
men  wouldn't  try  to  be  so  romantic  !  What  could  I  have 
done,  if  I  had  received  both  proposals  last  night  ?  I  simply 
could  not  have  accepted  either. ' ' 

"Well,  you  can  decide  better,  perhaps,  after  you  see  both. 
I  think  it  is  all  for  the  best,"  said  Mrs.  Marchemont  deci- 
sively. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  evening  the  door-bell  rang  gf  ntv> 
Judith,  her  face  flushed  and  her  manner  excited,  herself  ^n 
swered  the  summons. 

Robert  Richter,  his  face  radiant,  stepped  into  the  hall. 
"  Come  into  this  room,"  Judith  said  tremulously,  opening 
the  door  of  the  parlor. 

"Are  you  alone  ?  "  Robert  whispered. 
"Yes,"  said  Judith. 

"  Is  your  father  in  ?   I  — I  must  speak  to  him,  you  know." 
"  No,  he  is  out  this  evening,  on  business." 
"My  own  dear  little  girl,"  said  Robert,  once  the  parlor 
door  was  closed  on  them,  "how  good  you  are  !  " 

Then  he  felt  nervously  in  his  pocket  for  a  little  box,  that, 
as  Judith  instinctively  guessed,  enshrined  a  dazzling  engage- 
ment ring. 


..Mm 


Judith's  Dilemma. 


323 


t  was  the 

said  fret- 
i  Robert 

)bert  has 
5ne  prop- 
ben,  with 
'o  gentle- 
mdecided 
ish  young 
lid  I  have 
I  simply 

see  both, 
lont  deci- 

ig  gf  ntl> 
lerselt     '' 

le  hall. 
y,  opening 


ouknow." 

the  parlor 

box,  that, 
ng  engage- 


In  the  midst  of  this  she  was  startled  by  a  peremptory 
jangle  of  the  door-bell.    Charley's  ring  !    She  knew  it  was  ! 

A  look  of  vexation  passed  over  Robert's  face.  He  meekly 
dropped  the  ring-box,  with  the  ring  still  in  it,  back  itito  his 
pocket,  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

The  housemaid  answered  the  door,  and  Charles  Montgom- 
ery was  triumphantly  ushered  into  the  parlor. 

On  seeing  Mr.  Richter  so  comfortably  seated  tete-h-lete 
with  Judith,  Charles  was  visibly  annoyed,  but  he  shook 
hands  with  Judith  as  warmly  as  if  he  had  just  returned  from 
a  consular  exile,  and  then  ceremoniously  greeted  Robert. 

Judith  now  began  to  realize  keenly  the  embarras.sment  of 
the  situation.  Each  of  these  young  men  believed  himself 
engaged  to  her,  and  each  one  had  come  to  ratify  the  en- 
gagement. 

Feeling  that  she  must  make  an  effort  to  talk,  she  queried, 
turning  to  Charies,    "Is  the  sleighing  good  to-day,  Mr. 

Montgomery  ?  " 

"I  believe  we  have  had  no  sleighing  for  the  past  two 
weeks,"  Charles  answered  drily. 

"  Why,  yes  !    How  stupid  of  me  !  "  said  Judith,  with  a 

forced  laugh. 

•'  Have  you  seen  these  new  books  of  Miss  Mvchemont's?" 
asked  Robert,  taking  up  one  of  the  Dor^  volumes,  open  upon 

a  table. 

"What  do  you  think  of  them.  Miss  Marchemont?  "  in- 
quired Charles,  without  deigning  Robert  even  a  look. 

"  I've  been  in  raptures  over  them,"  said  Judith,  beginning 
to  recover  herself.  ' '  I  have  studied  the  illustrations  so  care- 
fully that  I  have  not  yet  got  out  of  the  '  Inferno.'  " 

The  young  men  did  not  perceive  anything  ridiculous  in 
this,  but  Judith  immediately  did,  and  was  amused,  in  spite 
of  herself. 


324 


Judith's  Dilemma. 


"  It  was  so  good  -"  she  continued,  and  then  broke  off. 

But  Charles  knew  what  she  would  have  said. 

So  did  Robert;  and  he  drew  himself  up  in  his  chair  and 

looked  very  gluin.  ,  . 

"Is  your  father  in,  Miss Marchemont ?  "  Charles  asked,  m 

a  low  tone.  „     , 

"No  he  is  out,"  Judith  returned,  in  a  tone  equally  low. 
If  they  fancied  Robert  had  not  overheard,  they  were  mis- 
taken.    He  glared  at  Charles,  and  then  darted  Judith  a  re- 
proachful look.  - 
"This  soft  weather  will  be  bad  for  consumptives,  but  good 
for  you  and  your  brother  professionals,  Mr.  Montgomery 
said  Robert,  with  a  palpable  sneer  that  surprised  Judith.     In 
all  her  wide  experience,  she  did  not  yet  know  what  discredit- 
able things  jealousy  may  prompt  a  lover  to  say. 

Charles  started  as  if  he  had  been  struck.  Why  should 
this  humdrum  fellow  be  suffered  to  come  and  pay  his  aa- 
dresses  to  Judith?  Why  did  Judith  tolerate  him  at  all? 
Should  he  not  be  crushed  so  effectually  that  she  would  never 

speak  to  the  man  again  ?  ,    ^     «,«  ^„a 

But  it  would  be  best  to  begin  with  musketry  fire,  and 
reserve  his  bomb-shells  for  a  final  eflFort.     So  he  said  : 

"  To  be  sure  it  will.  But  are  you  not  afraid,  Mr.  Richter, 
that  you  will  have  to  give  up  your  intention  of  surveying 
railroads,  and  content  yourself  in  laying  out  grave-yards? 

Robert  started,  in  his  turn,  but  replied  sharply  : 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  insinuate  that  nli  doctors  will  kill  their 
patients.  It  is  the  new  men,  you  know,  that  always  do  the 
greatest  'execution.' "         -  ,  ,     ,  _^j 

Charles  Montgomery  winced,  and  a  dazed  look  appeared 
on  Judith's  face.  If  they  were  bent  on  quaneling.  as  seemed 
probable,  it  would  be  better  to  get  rid  of  both. 

But  how  ? 


-^MWiiPP^lWii^^ 


Judith's  Dilemma. 


325 


)ke  off. 

:hair  and 

asked, in 

lally  low. 
were  mis- 
idith  a  re- 

,  but  good 
tgomery," 
jdith.  In 
t  discredit- 

hy  should 
ly  his  ad- 
im  at  all? 
rould  never 

ry  fire,  and 

aid: 

Ir.  Richter, 

■  surveying 

sre-yards?" 

ill  kill  their 
pays  do  the 

(k  appeared 
5,  as  seemed 


"  Oh,  never  mind  such  things,"  she  said  lightly.  "  Are 
you  going  —  to  the  next  Inauguration  ?  " 

This  was  a  random  inquiry,  and  Judith  quaked  inwardly, 
realizing  that  it  would  be  almost  certain  to  bring  up  the 
question  of  politics,  in  which,  perhaps,  they  differed. 

"Yes,  I  should  like  to  go,"  said  Charles.  "  What  an  at- 
traction Washington  proves  to  the  country  people ;  they  come 
even  from  the  western  prairies,"  with  a  sly  glance  at  Robert. 

"  But  then  we  thrust  ourselves  on  them,  and  make  our- 
selves a  nuisance,"  interpolated  Judith,  by  way  of  saying  some- 
thing. 

"Are  your  people  given  to  '  patronizing '  such  things,  Mr. 
Richter  ?  "  Charles  asked  carelessly. 

"  My  father  sometimes  had  to  do  such  things,  in  his  offi- 
cial capacity  as  Senator,"  Robert  said,  with  secret  satisfac- 
tion at  Charles's  discomfiture.  "  But  that  is  not  the  place  I 
should  care  to  take  a  wife  to,  unless  I  could  avoid  the  jam. 
I  would  not  have  my  wife  fagged  out  for  all  the  sight-seeing 

in  creation." 

"I  was  not  aware  that  you  have  a  wife,"  Charles  said 
tauntingly.     '  'I  thought  you  still  enamored  of  school-girls. 

"  I  shall  be  happy  to  introduce  you  to  my  wife  at  no  dis- 
tant day!"  retorted  Robert,  exultantly. 

Judith  trembled.  It  looked  as  if  Robert  or  Charles,  in  the 
heat  of  the  moment,  would  declare  his  engagement  to  her. 
Why  had  she  not  taken  measures  to  acquaint  each  of  them, 
ere  it  came  to  this,  with  the  exact  state  of  affairs,  as  honor 
had  prompted  ? 

Charles  thought  that  matters  began  to  look  serious,  but 
he  merely  suggested : 

"  Unless  some  rival  should  come  ?n  your  way  ! "  "^ 

"  Let  that  rival  beware  ! ' '  cried  Jiobert,  with  flashing  eyes. 


^26  Judith's  Dilemma. 

.•Let  a  rival  cross  my  path."  said  Charles  impetuously. 
"  and  I  would  shoot  him  like  a  dog  ! ' ' 

Robert  looked  up  sharply.  "  Yes  ?  "  he  said.  But  un- 
leryou  are  as  good  a  marksman  with  the  shot-gun  as  you 
ar:rh,say.tL  lancet,  you  wouldprobabVym.^^^^^^^^^^ 
and  so  cause  yourself  much  annoyance,  and  the  other  par  y 
Ich  amusement.  Of  course,  if  the  shooting  were  pu«ly 
accidental,  why.  then,  according  to  t^«  "^f  P^^?^!  J^/^^;^!: 
your  victim  would  be  pretty  effectually  put  out  of  the  way^ 
•■  Spoken  like  a  Solon,"  commented  Charles,  with  a  look 

that  showed  Robert's  "shot"  effective. 

"Doestiotyourprofessionalexperiencebearitout?     askea 

^"^Uy  professional  experience  has  not  yet  begun."  Charles 
"'Itg'your  pardon,  then,  with  all  my  heart!"   Robert 

"lion;-  and  painful  silence  ensued.    Judith  felt  kindly 
towards  Robert,  but  devoutly  wished  he  '^^"Idp.     Still 
it  was  a  great  relief  that  the  young  men  were  disposed  to 
monopolize  the  conversation.  „;„„?.. 

°'mat  did  you  think  of  the  play  the  other  evening? 
askeYcharles.'takingup  a  new  subject      ''Was  not  that 
tragedy  sublime?    Or  do  you  prefer  comedy  ? 

'■Well.  I  believe  I  was  he- was-was  engaged  -  other- 
wise "  Robert  stammered,  appearing  very  much  confused. 
Charles  looked  angry,  and  Judith,  uneasy. 
Then  Robert  added,  recklessly,  defiantly  : 
-      "  I  don't  like  such  a  comedy  as  this  !  " 

Judith  was  angry  enough  now.     Robert's  c^««^Jf«  ^^^^ 
less  if  he  could  have  known  it  -  and  perhaps  ^e  didknow jt. 
Another  painful  silence.  Judith  feeling  that  she  could  not 
endure  this  kind  of  torture  muc.i  longer. 


petuously, 

"But  un- 
jn  as  you 
your  man, 
ther  party 
ere  purely 
r  tragedies, 
■the  way." 
rith  a  look 

ut?"  asked 

n,"  Charles 

;!"    Robert 

L  felt  kindly 
I  go.  Still, 
disposed  to 

r  evening?" 
iTas  not  that 

ged  —  other- 
ch  confused. 


use  was  hope- 
e  did,  know  it. 
she  could  not 


Judith's  Dilemma. 


Nor  did  she.  A  side  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Marchemont 
glided  in,  bearing  a  tray  with  cake  and  coffee.  Depositing 
her  tray  on  a  table,  she  courteously  accosted  the  rivals. 

Charles  and  Robert  drank  their  coffee  so  incautiously  and 
feverishly  that  they  scalded  their  throats  ;  but  Judith  knew 
that  a  little  moderation  was  advisable  in  sipping  the  family 

beverage. 

"  Can't  you  play  something,  Judith  ? "  Mrs.  Marchemont 

asked. 

Charles  and  Robert  p  \.  .d  this  proposal  cheerfully,  the 
latter  observing  that  it  v  AA  be  better  than  so  much  monoto- 
nous talk. 

Judith  played  one  of  her  most  soothing  sonatas ;  then, 
thinking  her  mother  would  remain  in  the  room  till  one  or 
both  of  the  rival  suitors  had  taken  leave,  she  came  back  to 

the  table. 

Such  was  not  Mrs.  Marchemont's  purpose.  She  had  de- 
termined that,  as  Judith  could  not  decide  on  any  course  of 
action,  she  would  herself  bring  matters  to  a  crisis. 

"  Mr.  Montgomery,"  she  said,  "  Harold  would  like  to  set- 
you  a  few  minutes  in  the  library." 

It  certainly  cost  her  an  effort  to  say  this,  as  her  manner 
and  voice  betrayed  ;  but  she  knew  her  duty,  and  could  per- 
form it  bravely. 

Charles  looked  first  stupefied  and  then  indignant,  but 
grandly  rose  to  his  feet,  bowed  mockingly  to  Robert  and 
profoundly  to  Judith,  and  marched  out  in  the  wake  of  Mrs. 
Marchemont. 

Judith  looked  indignant,  too,  but  said  nothing;  while 
Robert  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  relieved  feelings. 

Charles  was  ushered  into  a  bright  and  cheerful  room,  where 
Master  Harold,  a  thirteen-year-old  schoolboy,  rose  from  his 


J28  Juditb'a  Dilemma. 

seat  at  a  table  and  grinningly  stretched  out  his  paw  to  shake 

"^Charles  frigidly  extended  his  hand,  saying  nothing. 

«'  It's  too  bad  the  skating's  all  gone,"  Harold  sighed. 

"  I  think  so,"  Charles  said  absently. 

As  Harold  ventured  on  no  further  legrets,  Mrs  Marche- 
n.ont  explained  that  he  wished  to  ask  Charles  a  few  ques- 
tions on  some  mooted  points  in  history,  m  which  the  dear 
bov  was  deeply  interested. 

Charles  muttered  something  about  being  happy  to  explain 
away  any  "  misunderstanding,"  and  Harold  dived  among  a 
pUe  of  school-books  on  the  table,  caught  up  a  volume  of 
history  with  a  jerk,  and  hurriedly  began  tumbling  over  the 
leats  Buthi  seemed  to  be  floundering  about  from  Preface 
to  Snis  quite  at  random,  and  the  "  mooted  points"  eluded 
his  iarcS.    Perhaps  he  had  gotten  hold  of  the  wrong  his- 

*°'' I  heard  you  asking  about  a  dawg  the  other  day."  he 
said  suddenly,  looking  up  from  his  history      "  f^^^harW 
if  you  want  one.  a  chum  of  mine  has  got  a  splendid  pup  for 
sale  — awful  cheap,  too."  _ 

-Yes?"  said  Charles.      "  Is  -  is  it  a  good  bargain  ?- 1 
mean,  a  good  dog -a  pup  likely  to  make  a  good  dog  ? 
"  Guess  'tis  !  "  cried  Harold  enthusiastically. 
But  Mrs.  Marchemont  saw  that  Charles  was  not  in  the 
humor  to  accept  this  desirable  pup.  even  as  a  gitt. 

The  same  housemaid  that  had  delivered  Charles's  parcel 
to  Judith  that  morning  now  came  into  the  room  with  a  scuttle 
of  coal,  and  set  about  replenishing  the  fire  in  the  ^ate. 

"  Oh  Susan."  said  Mrs.  Marchemont.  with  sudden  anima- 
tion  "  did  you  give  Miss  Judith  the  parcel  you  spoke  of? 
You  said  a  parcel  came  last  evening,  but  that  you  forgot  to 
deliver  it.    You  are  so  terribly  careless." 


Judith's  Dilemma. 


3*9 


I  to  shake 

ng- 
ighed. 

s.  Marche- 
i  few  qiies- 
1  the  dear 

to  explain 
•d  among  a 
volume  of 
g  over  the 
■om  Preface 
ts"  eluded 
wrong  his- 

:r  day,"  he 
>w,  Charley, 
idid  pup  for 

argain  ?  —  I 
idog?" 

(  not  in  the 
gift. 

irles's  parcel 
vith  a  scuttle 
grate. 

idden  anima- 
>u  spoke  of? 
Fon  forgot  to 


"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Susan  meekly,  "I  gave  it  to  her 
about  ten  o'clock  this  morning.  Some  other  boy  brought 
another  little  parcel  last  night,  but  Jane  says  she  got  it,  and 
delivered  it  right  away.     I'm  awfully  sorry  about  it." 

Then  Susan,  her  duty  done,  slipped  out  of  the  room. 

"  Can't  you  find  it  ? "  Charles  asked  sharply. 

"  No,"  said  Harold.  "  Oh,  well,"  tossing  the  book  upon 
the  sofa,  with  a  look  of  relief,  "it  isn't  much  odds,  any- 
way." 

"  Why,  Harold  !  "  reproved  his  mother,  with  a  look  that 
threatened  mischief  to  the  indifferent  student. 

"  Good  evening,  then,"  said  Charles.  "  Is  this  the  way 
out?"  opening  a  door  which  communicated  with  the  hall. 
"  I  see  it  is  ;  good  evening." 

A  minute  later,  Judith  came  into  the  room. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Marchemont,  "that  was 
strategy." 

'  Well,  mamma,  Robert  has  gone,  too ;  mortally  offend- 
ed." 

' '  Robert  ? ' '  aghast.     ' '  How  was  that  ? ' ' 

Then,  noticing  the  open-eyed  and  open-eared  Harold,  she 
said  to  him,  "See  which  way  they've  gone,  Harold.  But 
don't  let  them  see  you,  mind." 

The  boy  jumped  up  and  trotted  oflF  briskly. 

"  Now,  Judith." 

"  Well,  he  proposed  again,  and  I  told  him  that  Charles 
had  proposed  in  very  muc'  the  same  way.  He  got  angry, 
and  asked  if  I  meant  the  ribbon  for  him  or  for  Charles.  I 
told  him  frankly  that  I  believed  I  liked  Charles  best,  but 
that  the  signal  was  for  him  only.  But  I  was  cross,  and  angry 
about  the  way  you  had  treated  Charles,  and  I  suppose  I 
showed  it  plainly.  Then  we  had  a  long  talk,  and  he  went 
away  in  a  towering  rage  at  everything  and  everybody." 


^jo  JUiiith's  Dilemma. 

'■Well    one  or  both  will  come  back  to-morrow."  Mrs. 
Marchemont  said  soothingly.     "  Poor  girl !  what  an  ordeal 

''  loon'afteTwards  Harold  bounded  into  the  house,  saying 

'"^T^:;tet  not  far  off.  and  had  a  big  talk  ;  and  then  they 
both  laughed  a  little,  and  hoisted  up  the.r  «^-lder^^^^^^^^^^ 
their  ciears  and  shook  hands  real  hard,  and  said  Judith  was 
a  eood  gi  but  she  hadn't  much  m"  d.  and  that  wasn't  her 
:wrbiit  h;r  mother's  ;  and  then  they  looked  up  at  the  elec- 
tric light,  and  Charley  said,  'Thence  we  came  forth  to  re- 

behold  the  stars.'  and  Robert -' '  , 

"Yes  ".said  Judith,  •' that  is  the  last  line  of  the    Inferno, 

when  their  pilgrimage  down  below  is  completed 
wnen  incir  F  s         \„^,\"    observed    Mrs.   Marchemont. 
"  Quite  complimentary  !       oDserveu 

"  Well,  eo  on,  Harold."  , 

^Thef.  they  both  sighed  and  looked  pretty  solemn  and 
said  nobody  seemed  to  be  able  to  get  into  the  Paradiso 
Trth  a  ce'nt  this  evening;  and  they  went  away  smokmg 
like  a  steamboat  when  the  fireman  '«J°-l;"g  ^"  T.  r  know 
"  Never  mind,  Judith,"  said  Mrs.  Marchemont.  I  know 
what  young  men  are  ;  they  will  be  back  to-morrow.       ^ 

She  was  mistaken.  Neither  Charles  nor  Robert  ever  came 
back  or  ever  again  showed  any  attention  to  Judith. 

Jukith  grieve'd  a  few  days  for  Charles,  whom  she  sincet^ly 
liked  But  a  new  lover  appealed  on  the  scene  ;  she  fell  m 
love  with  him;  and  said  "yes"  when  he  proposed  in  the 
orthodox,  matter-of-fact  way. 

It  will  be  some  years  before  either  Charles  or  Robert  at 
tains  his  ' '  Paradiso ' '  here  below. 


)W,"  Mrs. 
t  an  ordeal 

ise,  saying 

I  then  they 
ers,  and  lit 
Judith  was 
wasn't  her 
at  the  elec- 
forth  to  re- 

e  '  Inferno,' 

[archemont. 

solemn,  and 
'  Paradiso ' 
'ay  smoking 
rup." 
t.     "I  know 

row.' ' 

jrt  ever  came 

iith. 

she  sincerely 

e  ;  she  fell  in 

(posed  in  the 

or  Robert  at- 


Tbe  H^aysiiie  Chapel. 


THE  WAYSIDE  CHAPEL. 

A  PLAIN  little  wayside  chapel 

Stood  long  by  the  turn-pike  road, 
Which  lead  through  a  peaceful  country. 

Where  want  never  lia<l  aljode. 
No  ivy  to  cluster  about  it, 

No  legends  to  give  it  fame ; 
No  eloquent,  forceful  preacher 

To  send  far  abroad  its  name. 

No  resident  pastor  ever 

Had  dwelt  within  easy  call. 
Because  the  whole  congregation 

Was  poor,  and  at  best  but  small. 
But  always  f^n   Sunday  mornings 

A  neighboring  church  would  send 
Some  one  who  could  preach  the  gospel 

And  fervently  bid  all  amend. 

Hia  texts  were  most  often  taken 

From  books  of  the  Holy  Writ 
That  all  of  his  homely  hearers 

Best  loved,  while  an  hour  they'd  sit 
And  drink  in  his  labored  sermon 

With  earnest,  yet  troubled  mind, 
Well-pleased  —  but  afraid  his  dinner 

Would  spoil  by  the  time  he  dined. 

For  never  could  any  preacher 

Complain  that  the  Bethel  folk 

Were  known  to  walk  off  and  let  him 
Drive  home,  with  his  fast  unbroke. 


332 


The  H^.?v$/i/«f  Chapel- 
mi  oft,  of  a  rainy  Sun.lay 

In  fall,  when  the  roa«l«  were  ba«t. 
He  came  to  fit><\  Juit  one  member 

On  hand,  in  hi»  dripping  plaid. 

And  once,  when  the  preacher  failed  them. 

A  member  aroM  and  aaid, 
"Now,  rather  than  dlaappoint  you, 

I'll  preach  to  the  quick  and  the  dead. 
He  did -and  while  aome  were  aobbing 

Still  othera  were  aore  diamayed, 
For  harahly  he  told  the  failinga 

Of  all,  while  none  dare  dissuade. 

Each  Sunday  a  fair,  aweet  maiden 

The  old  hymn  tunea  soft  played 
On  a  quavering  old  reed  organ, 

Whoae  aounda  a  hoarae  rhythm  m«de 
To  the  earnent  and  hearty  ainging. 

That  voiced  all  the  hymna  exprea»ed- 
For  membera  of  Bethel  alwaya 

Their  faith  by  their  aonga  confeaaed. 

But  now,  like  the  kindly  people 

Who  worshipped  there  long  ago. 
The  chapel  will  be  forRotten, 

Since  little  remains  to  show 
The  site  of  the  plain  frame  building  — 

Should  any  return  to  search. 
The  children  of  old-time  membera 

Go  all  to  the  village  church. 


-'^^^^^^^^ 


t/l  Jerri      CMista'he. 


335 


A  TERRIBLE  MISTAKE. 

Hkr  voice,  that  he  must  hear  no  more ; 

Her  footfall,  light  as  autntui-'r  rain  ; 
Her  trustful  glance,  that  ever  tjore 

Fond  love,  that  aeenied  could  never  wane ; 
Her  gentle  hand,  that  long  hcd  wore 

His  ring,  and  oft    n  Uia  had  lain ; 
Her  wealth  of  locks  Man  m.ist  adore; 

Her  smile  — he  u  ay  not  know  av.ain. 

Her  scorn  he  evermore  nmst  I'^ce ; 

Her  footfall  greets  ano^her•9  ear ; 
No  more  her  laughing  voice,  in  h' ce, 

Would  welcome  him,  should  he  appear. 
Another's  vowed,  on  bended  knee. 

And  'tis  his  ring  she  now  holds  deai, 
His  grief,  beyoiul  all  remedy  ; 

His  New  Year's,  wretched,  blanl     and  drear. 

That  voice  he  nevermore  must  know; 

Those  locks  he  ne'er  again  may  stroke. 
From  this  hour  forth  his  cake  is  dough  — 

Her  callers'  cake  he  now  may  joke ! 
For  Christmas  his  regard  to  show 

(The  "Season"  found  him  almost  broke) 
He  sent  old  cards,  stamped  years  ago  — 

And  all  his  gifts  went  up  in  smoke ! 


*'i: 
^ 


Sing  OAe  a  Song  of  Olden  'Days. 


SING  ME  A  SONG  OF  OLDEN  DAYS. 

In  olden  days,  at  my  request, 

You  sang  me  fiery  songs  of  love ; 

Sing  now  a  song  with  sad  refrain, 
Despairing  as  a  mourning  dove. 

In  this  last  meeting  of  our  life 

I  do  not  wish  to  cause  you  pain ; 

To-day  you  are  another's  bride, 

And  my  old  wounds  must  bleed  agam. 

My  love  for  you  has  not  grown  cold, 

Though  low  the  flame  has  sometimes  burned ; 

My  faithful  heart  has  never  changed, 

But  thoughts  of  other  sweethearts  spurned. 

For  ten  long  years  I've  cherished  hope 
That  your  regard  I  might  redeem; 

Man's  faith  sometimes  bums  on  alway, 
While  woman's  love  is  but  a  dream. 

The  spring-time  love  of  steadfast  hearts 
Is  love  that  can  not  pass  away; 

Time  will  bring  care,  and  pain,  and  death, 
But  the  first  love  knows  no  decay. 

When  you  and  I  were  sweethearts  still, 
You  promised  to  be  mine  for  aye ; 

I  ask  not  now  for  more  than  this, 
An  old-time  song  of  yesterday. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  ^Iden  days. 

When  you  and  I  were  sweethearts  true ; 
Those  happy  days  I  would  recall, 

Ere  for  all  time  we  say  adieu. 


miUKium's-tiKtV'l^Vt'lfVSfS 


tAlone  with  Grief. 


335 


ALONE  WITH  GRIEF. 


id; 


This  wretched  day  could  not  be  brief, 
But  it  has  run  its  course  at  last, 
The  storm-clouds  ghostly  shadows  cast, 

And  I  am  left  alone  with  grief. 


The  cruel  truth  to-day  I  learn, 

That  she  cares  nothing  for  my  pain. 
A  life's  devotion  was  in  vain, 

The  old,  loved  days  may  not  return. 

My  bird  sits  drowsy  on  his  stand ; 

The  fire  upon  the  hearth  bums  low ; 

The  little  clock  ticks  faint  and  slow ; 
My  old  dog,  trembling,  licks  my  hand. 

I  shiv'ring  sit,  with  head  bowed  low  ; 

The  night-wind  moans  adown  the  lane ; 

Sad  'gainst  my  casement  beats  the  rain, 
As  if  in  def 'rence  to  my  woe. 


Then  restlessly  I  move  about. 
Reflecting  o'er  and  o'er  again 
How  I  have  loved  so  long  in  vain ; 

While  still  the  dull  rain  falls  without. 


Aione  With  Grief. 

The  still,  small  voice  reproves:  "Weak  ma... 

Have  faith  i.i  God ;  lose  ..ot  your  soul ; 

What  though  you  did  ..ot  reach  your  goal, 
Perhaps  'tviras  not  i.i  vai.i  you  ra..." 

But  still  the  rain  falls  sad  a..d  drear, 

Still  moans  the  wind,  as  though  in  pa... ; 
Both  bear  to  me  the  same  refra.u,  ^ 

"She  loves  you  not,  and  naught  can  cheer. 

Oft  times  her  voice  I'll  seem,  to  hear, 
Oft  times  in  sleep  her  face  I'll  see, 
Her  sweet,  fair  face,  so  dear  to  me  — 

But  only  in  my  sleep,  I  fear. 

Although  I  ne'er  can  break  the  spell, 
I  can  forgive  her  cold  d.sda.n  ;  — 
•Tis  nothing  that  I  loved  in  vain  ;  — 

But  it  is  hard  to  say  farewell. 

Whate'er  betide  in  this  world's  strife, 
Of  this  my  heart  doth  full  assure. 
The  love  I  bear  her  will  e.idure 

As  lo..g  as  God  shall  give  me  life. 


City  Life  vs.  Country  Life. 


337 


CITY  LIFE  vs.  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

ii\liY  dear  fellow,  you  don' t  know  anything  about  it.  I 
iVl  have  ' been  there,'  and  know  whereof  I  speak." 
"  Pshaw  !  Man  knows  but  little  here  below,  and  knows 
that  little  mighty  slow,  to  paraphrase  the  poet  who  lived  be- 
fore railway  accidents  were  introduced  or  the  telephone  clerk 
was  patented.  Your  own  experience  must  convince  you  that 
all  a  man  can  learn  in  this  world,  from  suffering,  from  obser- 
vation, from  dead  books,  or  even  from  communicative  Nature, 
amounts  to  but  a  handful  of  cobwebs,  a  bucket  of  cmders, 
with  here  and  there  a  live  coal  of  knowledge  —  so  called. 

But  is  it  knowledge?"  .  .     ,     ,,  n 

"  So  you  are  in  for  an  argument  again,White  ?    Very  well, 
then  ;    we  will  fight   it  out,  if  it  takes  us  till  midnight. 
Please  wait  till  I  get  out  of  my  boots  and  fire  this  necktie 
into  a  drawer.     Make  yourself  comfortable  in  my  long-suf- 
fering chair,  for  I  am  going  to  lock  the  door  and  put  the  key 
in  my  pocket.     When  I  have  convinced  you  that  city  life  is 
as  different  from  country  life  as  a  nightmare  is  different 
from  a  cheering  visit  from  an  old  friend,  then  wiU  I  sheathe 
my  jack-knife,  and  unlock  the  door,  and  bid  you  good  morn- 
ing or  Happy  New  Year,  as  the  case  may  be.    Remember, 
this  is  August  the  6th,  and  the  hour  is  nine  p.  m."        ^^ 
"  Am  I  the  old  friend,  or  the  nightmare,  old  fellow  ? 
' '  My  dear  White,  you  are  the  old  friend.    I  can^  count  on 
my  fingers  all  the  friends  I  have-in  the  wide  world  who  are 
worthy  of  that  sacred  name.      You  are  one  of  them ;  but 


338  City  Life  vs.  Country  Lip. 

some  of  the  wannest  and  noblest  live  in  the  country.     In 
fact,  my  only  boast  is  that  I  am  a  countryman  myself." 

' '  Your  only  boast !     Oh ! " 

"Well,  onf  of  my  only  boasts.  One  of  these  friends,  as 
!•  ve  told  you,  took  holy  orders,  and  is  to-day  in  Buffalo.  We 
seldom  correspond,  but  the  old  friendship  is  eternal.     One  of 

them  is  dead  tome  forever;  another .     But  what  we 

want  to  do  is  to  argue,  not  talk.     Come,  open  fire. " 

"What  is  your  line  of  argument  ?  Do  you  hold  that  city 
life  is  the  summum  donum,  and  that  country  life  is  simply 

existence  ?  " 

"  By  no  means.  Each  has  its  charms,  and  you  and  I  love 
both  What  I  hold  is  this:  A  hermit  like  myself  does  far 
better  to  shut  himself  up  in  a  house  in  the  city,  for  genuine 
peace  and  solitude,  than  in  the  country.  Here  one  can  have 
perfect  freedom,  and  immunity  from  care.  There  is  no  occa- 
sion to  go  out  of  doors  for  anything,  because  all  a  man  can 
ask  for  is  brought  io  him."  . 

' '  Peace  and  solitude  !  Why,  the  street  cars  roar  and  jingle 
along  in  your  hearing  eighteen  hours  a  day,  and  circus  pa- 
rades pass  the  door  !     As  for  not  going  out,  you  simply  musl 

go  out."  ,  ,   ^1  •    * 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it !  When  a  child  comes  here  and  thirsts 
for  a  drink  of  fresh  water,  what  do  we  have  to  do  ?  Simply 
turn  a  tap,  and  load  the  poor  innocent  up  with  a  water-works 
mixture  of  animalcules,  diluted  sewerage  and  so  on.  In  the 
country  it  is  different.  There  you  must  gd  from  ten  feet  to 
ten  rods  right  out  doors,  frighten  the  chickens  out  of  their 
wits  if  it  is  day-time,  or  mayhap  run  foul  of  an  erratic  pole- 
cat if  it  is  midnight.  The  colder  the  day  or  the  blacker  the 
night,  the  more  thirsty  and  persistent  that  child  becomes. 
My  aunt  once  got  an  idyllic  black  eye  by  running  the  pump- 
handle,  that  was  pointing  like  the  needle  of  a  compass  at  the 


iMiiiwIilaNv ' 


City  Life  vs.  Country  Life. 


339 


mntry. 
yself." 


In 


i  friends,  as 

ufFalo.     We 

lal.     One  of 

ut  what  we 

re." 

)ld  that  city 

fe  is  simply 

lU  and  I  love 
self  does  far 
,  for  genuine 
ane  can  have 
re  is  no  occa- 
11  a  man  can 

)ar  and  jingle 
tid  circus  pa- 
i  simply  musi 

e  and  thirsts 
do  ?  Simply 
i  water-works 
o  on.  In  the 
)m  ten  feet  to 
IS  out  of  their 
a  erratic  pole- 
lie  blacker  the 
hild  becomes, 
ing  the  pump- 
:onipass  at  the 


North  Pole,  plumb  into  her  optic,  one  n,ght  when  I  was 
thirsty.  It  was  months  after  that  before  I  durst  get  thirsty 
again  over  night,  or  demur  if  they  teased  me  with  lukewarm 

''^'' Nonsense,  old  fellow  !  They  have  buckets  and  pails  in 
the  country,  and  in  them  they  accumulate  water,  even  as 
they  accumulate  hens'  eggs  in  a  market-basket. 

'•True-  but  the  thirsty  child  will  have  fresh  water,  be- 
cause he 'is  built  that  way.  Experience  and  observation 
both  teach  this.     Fresh  water  and  fresh  youth  are  akin. 

' '  Granted.  But  the  city  water,  you  acknowledge,  is  more 
or  less  impure.     Observe  that  /  don't  say  so,  or .'' 

"No-  I  took  that  watery  argument  out  of  your  bucket, 
or  you  would  have  made  the  most  of  it.  though  now  you  dis- 

""^^^uUe  so,  my  great  logician.     But  when  your  hyportteti- 
cal  thirsty  child  drinks  country  water,  he  imbibes  the  Simon- 

^"''iTdubt'it.     Did  you  never  see  a  well.  White,  with  a 
bull-frog  Mascaic  Lodge  in  posses.^on?      Did  you  never 
hear  of  a  white-haired  boy  that  unloaded  the  contents  of  a 
rat-trap  into  the  ancestral  well?     Did  you  never  hear  my 
gruesome  story  of  the  Gernan,   who  innocently  quaffed  a 
Lblet  of  the  Simon-pure  anicle,  which  was  nchly  flavored 
by  a  luxuriant  willow  hard-by.  and  asked.  J"  '"^"f  ^^ ;«; 
tonishment  and  disgust.  '  Have  any  of  your  pets  died  lately  ? 
Did  you  never  see  a  red-headed  hired  boy,  with  a  far-away- 
California  look  in  his  big  blue  eyes  and  a  railway  pamphlet 
in  his  pocket,  dreamily  empty  the  dish-water  where  it  could 
most  e^ly  meander  into  the  well?     Lest  you  should  steal 
a  march  on  me  and  sing  the  praises  of  the  spring  m  the  hol- 
Lw  -which  spring,  by  the  way.  is  as  far  from  the  house  as 
hlwater-works  offices  are  from  us  here,-let  me  jog  your 


m Ili 


340  City  Life  vs.  CouHtry  Life. 

memory  and  ask  if  you  never  saw  the  muley  cow  roil  the 
waters  of  that  crystal  spring,  or  the  unwashed  hog  lave  his 
fevered  snout  therein  ?  " 

"But  you  claim  that  in  the  city  you  can  den  up  like  a 
hermit,  and  never  have  occasion  to  go  out  at  all.  Will  you 
be  good  enough  to  give  me  particulars?  " 

•'  I  can  and  will.  In  the  country,  if  you  wish  to  buy  a 
newspaper  or  post  a  letter,  you  must  journey  an  English 
mile  — perhaps  a  German  mile  — to  do  it,  over  roads  that 
may  be  moderately  dusty  or  outrageously  muddy.  In  the 
city,  the  postman  drops  your  letters  and  regular  papers  m  the 
lette-b^-.,  and  the  smiling  newsboy  comes  and  gives  you 
y,  u.  (  h  tee  of  fifteen  papers— half  of  which  you  never  heard 
of,  and  never  want  to  hear  of  again." 

"  But  the  jaunt  in  the  country  will  be  medicine  to  you." 

"Good.     But  suppose  you  are  unable  to  go  so  far,  or 

haven't  time?     Three  miles,  to  post  a  letter  and  get  a  box 

of  cigars?" 

"Nonsense!  You  can  send  for  your  mail." 
"  Good,  again.  I  knew  you  would  think  of  these  things. 
My  dear  White,  I  once  sent  for  my  mail  by  a  boy  who 
wouldn't  rob  a  crow's  nest,  or  throw  stones  at  the  glassware 
on  the  telegraph  poles,  or  eat  onions,  or  drink  sweet  cider, 
or  pick  up  a  whet-stone  if  he  found  it  in  the  road.  What  do 
you  suppose  became  of  my  mail  ?  " 
"I  give  it  up." 

"Well,  as  it  turned  out,  there  was  a  letter  and  two  papers. 
That  boy' s  sister  got  it  into  her  head  that  these  were  fashion 
r-pers  (just  as  if  a  blasd  i^an  like  myself  would  care  for 
fashion  papers),  and  she  slipped  off  the  wrappers.  I  don't 
think  she  got  much  information  out  of  the  papers,  but  on 
one  there  was  a  scrap  of  news,  written  in  English,  and  on 
the  other  there  was  ditto  in  Spanish.    She  could  read  the 


"Wi"^ 


City  Life  vs.  Country  Life. 


34 « 


>w  roil  the 
og  lave  his 

1  up  like  a 
Will  you 

h  to  buy  a 
an  English 
roads  that 
ly.  In  the 
apers  in  the 
I  gives  you 
never  heard 

le  to  you.'* 
0  so  far,  or 
d  get  a  box 


hese  things. 

a  boy  who 
be  glassware 

sweet  cider, 
i.     What  do 


I  two  papers, 
were  fashion 
3uld  care  for 
ers.  I  don't 
apers,  but  on 
flish,  and  on 
uld  read  the 


English  first-rate;  but  the  other  bo  hered  her.  Howevc^^^ 
she  copied  it  off.  and  her  sister-in-law.  ^^o^^^/*^/  ^"'^f^ 
French  at  the  joyous  age  of  fourteen,  insisted  that  it  was 
OUendorffian  French,  and  lost  her  reason  trying  to  make  it 

out.     As  for  the  letter ." 

'•  But  how  did  you  find  out  these  things  t 
..  Such  things  are  sure  to  come  out.  White  ;  especially  in 
the  country.     Two  days  afterwards  the  good  boy  brought 
me  my  mail.    The  wrappers  on  the  papers  were  <^PP'''''»f 
Z^TL7^.^,  but  the  envelope  of  the  letter  -- worn  ^d 
crumpled  that  the  post-marks  were  indecipherable.     That 
might  have  proved  unfortunate,  for  it  was  the  th^r^  -d^^ 
of  a  series  of  anonymous  letters  that  I  had  received.     But  I 
had  long  since  found  out  the  identity  of  my  fair  correspond- 
ent  hofigh  she  was  not  yet  aware  of  it.     But  you  will  agree 
;"^me.Uaps.  that  it  may  prove  a  -^  -P-^^ b^ 
send  for  your  mail.     Some  thmgs  are  not  well  done  by 

'''■^"Yof  certainly  gleaned  a  little  knowledge -or  rather 

wisdom  — that  time." 

"True     No  cobwebs  mixed  with  It.  either. 

..  Well,  go  on.     How  can  you  get  the  necessaries  of  life, 
even  in  the  city,  without  bestirring  yourself  to  get  out^ 

"how?    My  dear  White,  you  must  keep  your  eyes  locked 
up  in  ylr  reVolver-case.  and  your  ears  in  your  trouse« 
"pLiets.  lest  you  should  hear  and  see  and  so  1--^^^/; 
let  us  outline  the  programme  of  one  day,-say  Wednesday, 
-for  both  city  and  country.     In  the  city.  then,  at  8  a.  M^a 
gigtn^  miUan  rings  you  to  the  door  and  gives  you  a  good 
Icriptural  measure  of  milk.    Winter  and  s««^»«/.  ^^ 
shine  you  can  rely  on  getting  it.     He  will  never  fail  you  - 
exc"  pt  for  ten  days,  when  he  is  away  on  his  bridal  tnp  and 

he?ie  Lnds  a  deputy,  who  has  learned  the  'route'  and 


342 


City  Life  vs.  Country  Life. 


makes  punctual  time  within  three  days.  But  if  he  should 
miss  you,  you  can  hail  any  one  of  a  dozen  others  passing 
the  door.  In  the  country  you  will  get  better  milk,  and  gen- 
erous, neighborly  measure,  I  grant  you.  But— those  stupid 
cows  have  to  be  hunted  down,  day  after  day,  which  is  no 
joke  for  the  tired  farmers.  Again,  they  are  likely  to  'go 
dry '  just  when  the  doctor  orders  you  to  drink  a  quart  of  milk 
as  a  morning  recreation.  If  he  orders  you  to  take  egg  and 
milk  for  pastime,  why,  then  will  the  hens  lay  off,  too.  The 
practical  dairyman  suffers  no  such  contingencies  to  bother 

him." 

"  Oh,  go  on  ;  you  make  me  tired." 

"Please  remember  that  the  key  of  the  door  is  in  my 
pocket.     At  9  A.  M.  the  grocer  sends  around,  in  his  inquisi- 
tive way,  to  know  what  your  orders  are.     At  9. 15  the  coal- 
oil  peddler  turns  up  with  his  stone-blind  horse  and  oil-soaked 
conveyance.     He  has  only  fifty  cents'  worth  of  clothes  on 
his  back,  to  be  sure  ;  but  he  has  thirty  dollars  in  his  various 
pockets,  and  three  thousand  more  in  the  savings  bank.     He 
will  sell  you  good,  marketable  oil,  at  two  cents  a  gallon 
cheaper  than  you  can  get  it  in  the  country— where,  many  a 
time,  I  have  seen  'most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  seign- 
iors' sauntering  along  the  sidewalk  of  the  township  metrop- 
olis, with  a  large,  rusty,  conspicuous,  aggressive   coal-oil 
can  in  their  right  hand,  which  they  will  shift  to  their  left  to 
shake  hands,  in  a  hearty,  honesw  way,  that  wins  the  admira- 
tion even  of  the  ungracious  city  snob.     You  will  admit  that 
in  the  country  it  is  coal-oil  or  candles,  while  in  the  city  home 
you  have  gas  or  the  electric  light.     At  9.30  you  will  hear  a 
crash  outside  that  may  suggest  the  idea  of  an  alderman  cap- 
sizing in  a  fit ;  but  it  is  only  the  iceman  slinging  a  lump  of 
ice  upon  your  door-step.     It  is  beneath  his  dignity  to  ring 
door-bells.     If  it  is  glad-eyed  June,  at  10. 10  a.  m.  the  straw- 


City  Life  vs.  Country  Life. 


343 


he  should 
!rs  passing 
c,  and  gen- 
aose  stupid 
vhich  is  no 
tely  to  'go 
lart  of  milk 
ce  egg  and 
,  too.  The 
s  to  bother 


r  is  in  my 
his  inquisi- 
5  the  coal- 
d  oil-soaked 
;■  clothes  on 
his  various 
bank.     He 
its  a  gallon 
ere,  many  a 
•rend  seign- 
>hip  metrop- 
>ive  coal-oil 
their  left  to 
the  admira- 
[1  admit  that 
be  city  home 
a  will  hear  a 
iderman  cap- 
iig  a  lump  of 
gnity  to  ring 
M,  the  straw- 


berry  huckster  will  sell  you  berries  that  V^"/  "  ^^^'^^^^^ 
you  will  only  shut  your  eyes ;  and  at  3  v.  m.  anda  6  p.  M^h^ 
rivals  will  come  along  and  sell  you  just  as  good  lorries  a 
half  the  price.  At  lo.ii  A.  M.  your  baker  will  drive  up  be- 
S  htr:;ith  your  bread,  and  while  you  -  U^XYdT- 
supplies  from  them  the  baker's  horse  w.  1  ^i^^K^^f^^f^^^ 
la^' worth  of  strawberries,  and  the  affair  will  come  out  in 

the  newspapers.     At  12  p.  m.         ." 

"  That  a;tf«/rf  be  pleasant,  now,  wouldn  t  It  ? 

.■  It  would  be.  for  the  neighbors,  certainly.    But  how  lonK 
would  you  have  to  live  in  the  country  to  see  «"^l\^l,""K«^ 
It  high  noon  the  butcher  will  call,  if  you  are  a  sensible  man 
knd  leave  orde«  for  him  to  do  so,  and  he  and  the  vegetable 
Len  will  supply  you  with  enough  to  keep  the  cook-stove  busy 
for  a  week.     In  the  midst  of  your  midday  meal  a  good-na- 
Id  Polish  Jew.  who  speaks  five  ^iffereiit  languages  wn 
pay  you  a  friendly  call  and  offer  you  eighty  cents  for  the 
accumulated  old  clothing  of  as  many  years-or  in  rounder 
ruXrs  of  one  hundred  years.     In  the  country  you  might 
W  converted  these  into  a  scare-crow  ;  but  the  crows  wou^d 
have  laughed  at  it,  and  the  neighbors  would  have  crmci^d 
it      At  2  P  M.  the  city  chimney-sweep  will  come  and  threat- 
eningly show  you  a  mandamus  from  the  City  Hall  setting 
forth  thIuT  your  chimneys  are  not  swept  on  next  Monday, 
yt  w^i  be  se'nt  to  the  penitentiary  for  ten  years  for  arson 
Ld  as  many  more  for  high  treason,  the  sentences  not  to  run 
concun^ntly;  whereas  in  the  country  you  -^^  ^  hav^^f  d 
to  let  your  chimneys  bum  out  of  themselves,  at  the  risk  ot 
wouS  the  fine  sensibilities  of  the  English  msurauce 

companies."  .    ,    , ,    j    t,  .. 

-  This  is  not  argument ;  it  is  balderdash. 

"Come,  now ;  if  the  discourse  were  yours,  /should  politely 
call  it  baiinag;.    But  even  balderdash  may  be  argument. 


344 


City  Life  vs.  Country  Life. 


At  3  V.  M.  a  venerable  old  man,  who  may  have  seen  better 
days,  or  may  see  them  yet,  will  come  around  and  naively  sell 
you  three  packages  of  envelopes  and  of  note-paper,  at  ten  cents 
a  package.  To  be  sure,  there  may  !»  better  and  cheaper 
down  town,  but  neither  better  nor  cheaper  in  the  country. 

At ." 

"Hold  on!  I've  got  you  this  time!  The  Post-Office 
Department  arranges  to  deliver  stamps,  but  not  at  unseason- 
able hours  — the  very  time  when  you  would  most  want  them. 
Here  is  a  dilemma  for  you  ! " 

"  You  will  not  break  in  on  my  narrative  again  in  that 
way.  White.  Lo  !  at  lo  p.  m.  a  neighbor  across  the  street 
will  come  in  without  hat  or  cane.  He  will  plead  that  he 
must  write  seven  letters  for  the  morning  mail,  and  that  he  is 
'  long '  on  stamps  and  '  short '  on  envelopes  ;  can  you  make 
a  deal  ?  Lo  !  here  is  the  opportunity  to  unload  some  of  the 
dearly-bought  envelopes.  He  leaves  you  stamps  enough  to 
mail  five  letters,  and  materially  reduces  your  stock  of  envel- 
opes.    See?" 

"  But  such  a  thing  might  happen  in  the  country." 
"  Eh  ?  Well,  yes  ;  I  stand  rebuked.  In  fact,  it  would  be 
much  more  likely  to  happen  in  the  country.  —At  5  p.  m.  a 
sunburnt  book-agent  will  visit  you,  with  forty-seven  dollars' 
worth  of  literature  in  his  grip.  Here  you  have  your  choice 
of  all  the  best  works  issued  by  the  leading  subscription -book 
publishers  in  America.     What  luck  !  " 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  him,  or  does  he  '  unload '  on  you  ?  " 
"  My  dear  White,  I  used  to  be  much  more  afraid  of  a 
dashing  young  gossip  I  knew  in  the  country.  Peace  be  to 
her  ashes  !  She  talked  herself  to  death  at  the  early  age  of 
twenty-two.  Now,  I  take  the  initiative  with  this  young  man, 
and  talk  him  black  in  the  face,  and  then  write  him  out  a 
charm  against  hungry  dogs,  and  advise  him  how  I  would 


City  Life  vs.  Cowitrv  Life. 


345 


en  better 
lively  sell 

ten  cents 
[  cheaper 

country. 

o9t-Office 
unseason- 
mt  them. 

n  in  that 
the  street 
1  that  he 
that  he  is 
you  make 
me  of  the 
enough  to 
;  of  envel- 


;  would  be 
t  5  P.  M.  a 
en  dollars* 
our  choice 
ption-book 

1  you?" 
ifraid  of  a 
'eace  be  to 
arly  age  of 
oung  man, 
him  out  a 
w  I  would 


tackle  a  man  who  has  just  five  mi.uites  to  catch  •'^^'■^i"-  «'"J 
how  I  would  lay  for  the  man  who  l^-^d  just  got  out  of  ja,     o 
subscribing  in  an  order-book  with  his  shot-gun.     Then  I 
cheerfully  subscribe  for  a  book  that  he  says  is  to  be  published 
five  years  hence,  but  which  I  know  is  already  out. 

' '  Well ,  ha ve  y ou  done  ?  " 

"  No  •  but  I  will  stop  to  wind  my  watch. 

<•  Oh,  say  !  You  wouldn't  know  an  argument  from  a  horse- 

shoe ' "  f 

"That  reminds  me  of  more  arguments.     Three  or  four 
times  a  year  there  is  an  election  going  on  in  the  "tj.  and  the 
opposing  parties  will  send  around  a  carnage  and  ms.st  on 
Sg  you  a  free  ride  to  the  polls.     Suppose  the    rate  W" 
e  !•  fre  called  upon  to  vote  $700,000  to  help  a  new  railway 
hnild  into  the  citV     You  ride  with  the  Antis.  because  they 
Lndl'e  luxurious  carriage,  and  vote  for  the  railway 
Tople  on  principle.     If  you  are  sick  in  bed  with  sciatica  o 
rneumonir.  it  Lsn't  make  a  bit  of  ^iff-nc.  =  th^^  -;^^ 
have  your  vote,  and  Death  may  claim  your  life,  or  not.     The 
onWtirg  they  draw  the  line  at  is  this :  They  hate  to  go 
crrLg  abound  patients  who  are  suffering  from  diphtheria  or 

yellow  fever." 

"  But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  the  country  ? 

"  I  am  coming  to  that.    The  city  horse  will  not  shy  at  the 
circus  parade  you  spoke  of,  neither  will  he  be  led  from  the 
narrow  line  of  the  street  car  rails  by  the  seductive  music  of 
a  thr^-hundred-dollar  hand-organ,  which  can  be  beard  fou 
blocks  away,  and  which  truly  causes  its  owner  to  earn  his 
br^ad  by  tL  sweat  of  his  brow.      But  with  the  country 
horse  it  is  different,  you  know.     This  summer  an  oM  fnend  of 
mine  undertook  to  drive  me  along  the  beautiful  roads  of  our 
natTve  district.     He  will  not  ask  me  to  go  again,  neither 
will  he  pride  himself  on  his  Jehuship  again.    All  went  merry 


J 


346 


O/y  Lit    '».  Coiinfrv  life. 


for  the  first  two  milest,  unJ  then  we  suddenly  cai.ie  upon 
a  city  dude,  touritiB  the  country    .i»  \un  '  hike '  —  his  shy- 
cycle,   as    my    friend   jocosely  and    not    inaptly  called  it. 
The  only  mistake  the  youth  made  was  in  setting  out  before 
he  had  mastered  his  wheel ;  and  the  only  mistake  our  horse 
made  was  in  turning  wildly  into  the  same  ditch  into  which 
the  youth  had  upset  himself.     Forty  beautiful  spokes  sud- 
denly became  worthless  wire ;  while  my  friend  was  thrown 
headlong  upon  the  unfortunate  bicyclist.       But  it  didn't 
interrupt  our  journey  half  so  much  as  it  did  the  latter's. 
This  seemed  to  infatuate  our  horse,  however,  and  he  bowled 
us  along  most  enjoyably.     Anon  we  heard  a  noise  like  a 
freight  train  coming  right  along  the  highway.     My  friend 
jumped  out  at  once,  and  led  poor  Sam,  the  horse,  now  trem- 
bling like  a  leaf,  to  a  telegraph  pole,  and  tied  him  fast  with 
a  rope  and  six  or  seven  pieces  of  strap.     I  asked  him  if  his 
fall  had  made  h'm  crazy,  and  he  said,  '  No  ;  I  wish  I  had  a 
logging-chain  besides  these.'     He  explained  nothing  and  I 
asked  nothing,  for  if  it  was  a  question  of  ignorance  on  my 
part,  I  wasn't  going  to  give  it  away.     Presently  a  steam 
thresher  outfit,  drawing  three  contented- looking  men  and 
two  wagons,  came  crunching  along,  and  I  began  to  wish  we 
had  had  a  city  horse.    The  men  laughed  at  us  till  the  tears 
came,  and  I'm  sure  I  didn't  blame  them.     But  it  was  no  joke 
to  Sam.     That  telegraph  pole  is  fifteen  degrees  out  of  plumb 
to  this  day.      When  the  steam  thresher  monster  was  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  past  us  on  its  journey,  my  friend  led  Sam 
out  into  the  road,  climbed  into  the  buggy,  and  we  were  off 
again  like  a  flash.     But  we  were  just  five  minutes  too  late 
for  our  letters  to  catch  the  English  mail,  and  we  began  to 
feel  discouraged.     But  on  our  way  home  we   got  along 
famously,  and    were  beginning  to  congratulate  ourselves. 
We  were  almost  at  the  top  of  a  big  hill.     On  below  in  the 


City  Life  vs.  Country  Lije. 


347 


tt.ie  upon 
-his  shy- 
called  it. 
jut  before 
our  horse 
uto  which 
Kikes  sud- 
is  thrown 

it  didn't 
e  latter's. 
he  bowled 
ise  like  a 
My  friend 
now  treni- 
\  fast  with 
him  if  his 
sh  I  had  a 
ling  and  I 
ice  on  my 
Y  a  steam 

men  and 
;o  wish  we 
1  the  tears 
as  no  joke 
:  of  plumb 
ter  was  a 
1  led  Sam 
ve  were  off 
:es  too  late 
e  began  to 
got  .along 

ourselves, 
low  in  the 


hollow  was  my  friend's  home  and  our  journey's  end.  vSud- 
denly  a  piercing  scream  came  from  this  hollow,  and  our 
horse  began  to  plunge  violently. 

"  '  What  can  it  mean  ?'  gasped  my  friend,  '  If  it  comes 
again,  Sam  will  kill  something : ' 

"  It  did  come,  again  and  again.  Sam  did  not  '  kill  some- 
thing • '  but  he  ran  away,  and  threw  us  both  into  a  bed  of 
nettlei  on  the  brow  of  the  hill.  I  give  you  my  word  that 
neither  my  friend  nor  I  got  a  broken  neck  ;  but  we  saw  Sam 
dash  on  and  knock  the  buggy  to  pieces,  and  fetch  up  at 
last  with  considerable  harness  still  on  him,  at  the  stables. 
The  shrieking  ceased  ;  but  what  do  you  suppose  it  was?  " 

' '  Oh  your  ridiculous  imagination. ' ' 

"You  are  away  off.  It  was  my  friend's  city  cousin,  a 
lively  girl  of  fifteen.  She  was  fishing  her  first  fish  in  the 
stream  in  the  hollow,  and  had  captured  an  astonished  crab 
on  her  fish-hook.  Both  were  frightened  to  death  ;  but  the 
crab  couldn'  t  scream  !  " 

"  So  you  prefer  city  life  to  country  life  ?  " 

•'  I  never  said  so.  White.  I  am  like  the  boy  in  the  stupid 
fable  ;  I  like  both,  off  and  on." 

"I  agree  with  you,  in  part.     But  wLat  have  we  been 

arguing  about  ? "  ,     ,,  •  t 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I  have  talked  for  the  sake  of  talking.     I 

am  not  through  yet,  but  if  I  get  through  in  time  I  am 

going  to  get  my  life  insured  and  go  back  to  the  country 

to-morrow."  .   t     • 

"Not  through  yet!  Say,  give  me  that  key!  I  g»ve  'n  I 
I  am  more  than  convinced;  I  am  overwhelmed.  -  That  s 
good  ;  thank  you.     Say,  old  fellow,  you  didn't  touch  on  two 

things,  after  all ;  pure  country  air,  and ."  ^^ 

"  True.     Now  it  is  my  turn  to  give  in  to  you.  White. 

"  And  how  you  contrive  to  post  your  love-letters,  whether 


348  City  Life  vs.  Coutitry  Life. 

in  city  or  country.  You  don't  trust  them  to  ordinary 
mortals,  nor  would  you  confide  all  your  secrets  to  your 
letter-carrier.     But  perhaps  yon  have  some  jugglery,  which 

"  Give  me  back  the  key,  White,  and  we  will  fight  it  out 
all  over  again." 

"You  go  to  the  mischief  !     Good  night !  " 
And  the  door  shut  with  a  bang. 


[ 


ordinary 

to  your 

ry,  which 


1 


The  Freshet. 


349 


:ht  it  out 


i 


THE  SPRING  FRESHET. 

In  the  days  wben  most  cities  were  hamlets, 

Aud  our  fathers  rejoiced  in  their  wild 
Country  life  and  their  old-fashioned  school-house, 

How  the  glad  face  of  boyhood  droll  smiled 
When  in  March  the  bright  sunshine  came  glinting 
Through  the  cramped  little  windows,  strong  hinting 
That  to-morrow,  or  very  soon  after, 
The  spring  freshet  would  roar,  like  a  river, 
All  around  the  old  building,  and  frighten 
The  trustees  till  their  gaunt  locks  should  whiten. 

If  our  parents  had  known  how  we  gloried 

In  the  floods,  at  recess  tind  when  slow 
After  school  hours  our  home  way  we  sauntered 

By  the  stream,  with  our  hearts  all  aglow. 
They  perhaps  would  have  been  somewhat  fearful. 
Would  have  charged  us,  with  eyes  still  more  tearful, 

To  beware  of  the  freshet's  dread  dangers ; 

They  perhaps  would  have  asked  of  the  master 
If  the  boys  any  progress  were  showing. 
When  their  minds  with  wild  waters  were  flowing. 

Though  it  mocked  at  the  path-master's  science. 
Washed  out  culverts  and  flooded  the  road. 
Swept  off  bridges  and  threatened  the  toll-gate. 

Till  the  farmers  could  scarce  take  a  load 
Of  their  produce  to  market,  yet  scholars 
Were  sent  daily  to  school,  lest  the  dollars 

That  were  grudged  to  the  teacher  be  wasted. 
And  his  board-bill  allowed  — and  he  idle! 
Yet  the  boys  all  enjoyed  "freshet  weather," 
Though  they  longed  to  play  truant  together. 


*■* 


Vltt^igir; 


350 


The  Freshet. 


With  the  flood  at  its  worst  a  vast  lakelet 

Half  encircled  the  school-house,  and  raged 
With  a  fury  that  scarce  knew  abatement 

For  a  week ;  while  each  season  was  gauged 
On  a  tree,  where  high  water  showed  highest. 
It  was  easily  known  who  kept  driest. 

But  not  easy  to  know  who  got  wettest ; 

Though  'twas  commonly  one  of  our  raftsmen 
Who  adventured  too  much  in  safe  guiding 
Our  big  raft,  where  grim  shipwreck  seemed  hiding. 

But  one  spring  there  came  shipwreck,  and  almost 

The  sad  drowning  of  our  second  mate  ; 
We'd  slow  drifted  a  mile  from  the  school-house,  ^^ 

And  reluctant  slunk  back  to  our  fate. 
The  old  clock  just  struck  three  as  we  straggled 
Through  the  door,  and  our  clothing  bedraggled 
Caught  the  eye  of  the  master,  who  calmly 
Laid  aside  the  romance  he  was  reading 
And  then  whipped  us,  with  strength  undiminished. 
Till  the  clock  chimed  out  four  —  when  he  finished. 


WfcJI 


MiiiiHil 


tmtk, 


Lucy  and  the  Fortune-Teller. 


351 


LUCY  AND  THE  FORTUNE-TELLER. 

U  AjlY  dear  Hart,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  again." 

1  Vl  ' '  I  might  say  the  same  ;  but  it  isn't  necessary ;  you 
know  my  nature.  What  I  wish  to  do  is  to  congratulate 
you.  I  am  told  you  are  engaged  to  a  handsome  young  lady. 
Now  perhaps  you  will  be  good  enough  to  invite  me  to  the 

wedding."  ,,  m 

"Your  congratulations  are  a  trifle  premature,  old  fellow. 
I  haven't  yet  persuaded  the  young  lady  to  make  up  her 
mind.  Can  you  suggest  a  way  by  which  I  can  prevail  on 
hertoquitcoqueningwithme?  .1  am  most  anxious  for  a 
wedding  to  come  about." 

"Well,  I  could  ruggest  twenty  things  to  you,  if ." 

"  Suggest  (?«^ .' " 

"Jack,  is  your  lady-love  superstitious— however  little?  " 
"  She  is  inclined  that  way.  But  what  of  it  ?  " 
' '  Everything.  Take  her  out  for  a  walk — say,  to-morrow 
afternoon  — along  the  river,  and  just  before  you  come  to  the 
Great  Western  bridge  you  will  encounter  an  old  gipsy-woman 
fortune-teller.  Keep  mum,  and  your  sweetheart  herself  will 
suggest  the  idea  of  having  her  fortune  told.  The  rest  fol- 
lows naturally." 

"You  are  to  personate  the  fortune-teller  ?  " 

"It  is  most  wonderful  that  you  should  have  guessed  it, 

Jack  !    Your  penetration  passes  all  belief!     For  the  fun  of 

the  thing,  you  might  come  along  with  quite  a  party  of  the 

young  people.     It  will  be  just  as  easy  to  make  half  a  dozen 


3 

J 


352 


Lucy  and  the  For  tune-Teller. 


matches  as  one.  But  you  must  post  me  thoroughly  as  to 
your  sweetheart's  idiosyncrasies  and  history,  because  I  don't 
want  to  make  any  mistakes.  I  think  you  may  quietly  begin 
preparations  this  very  day  for  a  brilliant  and  speedj'  wed- 
ding." 

"  My  dear  Hart,  how  can  I  thank  you  enough  ?  " 

"Don't  mention  it.  I  shall  charge  the  young  lady  five 
shillings  for  telling  her  fortune,  and  you  will  have  to  pay  it, 
•on  the  spot.  Fortune-tellers  don't  give  credit,  you  know. 
But  I  mean  to  send  her  a  handsome  wedding  present." 

Then  the  two  young  men  held  a  long  conversation,  and 
■when  they  separated,  Hart  Montague  was  indeed  ' '  thor- 
oughly posted."  The  lover.  Jack  Herrick,  once  ventured 
on  a  mild  protest  that  it  was  taking  an  unfair  and  ungentle- 
manly  advantage  of  his  sweetheart,  but  his  friend  appeased 
him  by  quoting  the  old  saying  that  ' '  all  is  fair  in  love  and 
war." 

Lucy  Pendleton  was  indeed  somewhat  superstitious ;  but 
that,  in  the  eyes  of  her  admirers,  was  only  another  oi  her 
many  channs.  She  was  a  lovely  girl,  but  capricious.  This 
■was  not  likely  to  frighten  away  any  suitors,  though  Jack 
Herrick  realized  that  his  chances  of  winning  her  were  alto- 
gether dependent  on  her  caprice,  not  his  solicitations. 

Behold  the  pair,  then,  strolling  along  the  classic  Avon,  on 
the  next  afternoon.  With  them  were  three  or  four  young 
ladies,  each  with  an  escort.  They  had  some  vague  idea  of 
joining  a  picnic  party  up  the  river,  but  had  no  suspicion  that 
Jack  was  directing  their  movements.  For  once  in  a  way  Jack 
was  master  of  himself  and  of  the  situation. 

"  Oh,  look  !  "  cried  Lucy,  as  they  turned  a  bend  in  the 
river.  "  There  is  a  ridiculous  old  gipsy  !  Let  us  go  jp  ..;d 
speak  to  her." 

The  word   ridiculous  admirably  described    the   creature 


lUghly  as  to 
luse  I  don't 
uietly  begin 
speedj'  wed- 

i?" 

ig  lady  five 
^e  to  pay  it, 
,  you  know. 
:sent." 
Tsation,  and 
deed  "thor- 
ice  ventured 
nd  ungentle- 
:nd  appeased 
r  in  love  and 

stitious ;  but 
lother  oi  her 
cious.  This 
though  Jack 
ler  were  alto- 
itions. 

ssic  Avon,  on 
r  four  young 
ague  idea  of 
luspicion  that 
in  a  way  Jack 

bend  in  t'\^ 
us  go  up  u.id 

the   creature 


Lucy  and  the  Forttiue-Teller. 


353 


before  them.  In  fact,  Jack  himself  had  difficulty  in  recog- 
nizing his  friend  Hart,  so  faithfully  did  that  scamp  represent 
the  typical  gipsy  fortUTie-teller. 

The  party  drew  near,  and  saluted  the  gipsy  with  mock 

politeness. 

"  Can  you  tell  fortunes,  mistress  ?  "  inquired  Lucy. 
"I  have  told  the  fortunes,  sweet  lady,  of  the   greatest 
people  in  England.     The  stars  are  to  me  an  open  book.     I 
look  into  the  future  as  into  a  looking-glass,  and  the  past  is 
mirrored  before  me  as  the  full  moon  upon  the  broad  river.' 

"Tell  me  something  first  of  the  past.     The  future  does 
not  trouble  me  so  much  as  you  may  think." 

"  Give  me  your  left  hand,  sweet  lady,  and  let  the  young 
man  give  me  as  a  fee  the  silver  in  his  left-hand  vest  pocket.  ^ 
Lucy  ungloved  a  fair  hand,  and  for  one  brief  moment  it 
was  attentively  examined  by  the  gipsy.  Then  with  a  start 
it  was  dropped.  "  The  future  w.M  trouble  you,  sweet  lady 
ere  many  moons.  Fate  is  already  knocking  at  the  door  of 
your  heart." 

' '  Well, ' '  said  Lucy  curiously,  ' '  what  do  you  read  ? 
"  Time  enough  to  tell  you  that,  sweet  lady.     First  I  will 
tell  you  something  of  your  past,  as  you  wished  me." 
' '  Never  mind  the  past  at  all.     Tell  me  of  the  future. 
"  Not  so.     On  the  day  you  were  thirteen  years  old  you 
were  saved  from  drowning  in  this  very  river." 

"  Yes  !  "  acknowledged  Lucy,  starting  in  her  turn. 
"  On  the  t'iirteenth  of  the  seventh  month,  July,  1887,  you 
narrowlv  nursed  bein-  hit  by  a  rifle-ball.     You  thought  a 
little  brother  had  accidentally  fired  the  shot.     It  was  not  so. 
His  ball  found  another  billet." 

Lucy,  as  well  as  the  other  young  ladies,  now  became  thor- 
oughly interested. 


354 


Lucy  and  the  For  tune-Teller. 


¥M  : 


"  You  have  noticed  how  often  the  numbers  thirteen  and 
seven  have  occurred  in  your  history,  sweet  lady  ? ' ' 

"  Certainly  I  have,  and  wondered  at  it,"  assented  Lucy. 

"These  numbers  will  follow  you  all  your  life.  One  is 
lucky,  the  other  unlucky.  There  are  thirteen  letters  in  your 
name  ;  you  have  had  six  offers  of  marriage.  If  you  do  not 
accept  the  seventh,  you  must  wait  for  the  thirteenth.  This 
man  will  be  an  outlaw,  but  this  line  in  your  palm  shows 
that  the  seventh  man  will  propose  this  evening.  If  you  re- 
fuse him,  he  will  kill  himself,  and  you  will  fall  to  the  out- 
law, who  will  poison  you  in  191 3." 

Lucy  was  now  becoming  alarmed.  ' '  How  shall  I  make 
sure  who  is  ttte  seventh  ?  "  she  asked. 

' '  There  ure  but  four  letters  in  his  Christian  came,  sweet 
lady,  as  in  yours,  thr>ngh  there  are  seven  in  his  family  name. 
His  destiny  is  illustriou?:  He  will  be  titled  by  your  Queen 
ere  you  are  three  years  married ;  will  fight  three  battles 
against  the  Italians,  and  fix  his  name  upon  the  stars  forever. 
He  will  be  so  rich  that  ten  horses  can  not  draw  his  gold. 
But  if  you  refuse  him,  all  this  glory  ends  in  brimstone ;  he 
will  shoot  himself." 

"  Is  he  handsome,  too  ?  ' '  asked  Lucy,  with  great  interest. 

Hart  and  Jack  exchanged  amused  glances.  Hart  did  not 
think  the  prospective  bridegroom  handsome,  so  he  replied  : 
"See  for  yourself,  sweet  lady;  his  picture  is  the  thirteenth 
in  a  book  that  was  given  you  on  your  seventeenth  birthday." 

Lucy  remembered  perfectly  well  that  Jack's  photograph 
was  the  thirteenth  in  her  album,  and  that  she  had  always 
looked  upon  this  accidental  placing  of  it  as  ill-omened. 

Still,  if  this  old  witch  said  he  was  the  man . 

'  Is  there  no  ill  luck  in  that  ?  "  she  asked,  at  length. 

"Sweet  lady,  it  is  destiny.  The  lucky  and  the  unlucky 
numbers  chase  each  other  all  through  your  life.     Link  your 


f«>'  t>fcMs 


Ithirteen  and 
?" 

ted  Lucy. 
ife.     One  is 
tters  in  your 
f  you  do  not 
eenth.    This 
palm  shows 
If  you  fe- 
ll to  the  out- 

ihall  I  make 

name,  sweet 
family  name. 

'  your  Queen 
three  battles 
stars  forever. 

raw  his  gold. 

»rimstone ;  he 

jreat  interest. 
Hart  did  not 
0  he  replied : 
he  thirteenth 
th  birthday." 
5  photograph 
;  had  always 
s  ill-omened. 

t length, 
the  unlucky 
Link  your 


Lucy  and  the  Fortuue-Teller. 


355 


fate  with  the  great  man's,  and  you  wili  live  long  and  be 
happy.  His  star  will  never  wane  —  unless  you  refuse  him 
this  evening. ' ' 

Jack  now  began  to  look  triumphant.  He  even  began  to 
fancy  that  his  friend's  wild  talk  was  prophetic. 

"What  of  the  person  who  fired  the  rifle-ball?"  Lucy 
suddenly  asked.  "Who  was  he,  and  when  shall  I  see  him 
again  ? ' ' 

"Sweet  lady,  these  are  dark  things.  It  is  not  good  for 
you  to  know  everything,  but  I  may  tell  you  that  you  will  be 
in  Rome  in  July,  seven  years  distant,  and  that  on  the 
thirteenth  of  the  month,  at  seven  minutes  to  noon,  you  will 
meet  him  face  to  face.  If  the  seventh  man  who  proposes  is 
then  your  husband,  his  glittering  sword  will  disable  your 
secret  enemy ;  if  the  bearded  outlaw  is  then  your  husband, 
the  secret  enemy  will  again  attempt  your  life. ' ' 

"  And  kill  me  ?"  gasped  Lucy. 

"No,  sweet  lady;  you  escape  sorely  wounded,  and  live 
for  your  outlaw  husband  to  poison  you  in  1913-" 

"Oh,  certainly ;  I  forgot  about  that !  "  said  Lucy. 

The  look  of  implicit  faith  on  her  innocent  face  was  almost 
too  much  for  Hart  Montague.  In  fact,  his  triumphant 
success  caused  him  to  feel  remorseful  rather  than  jubilant. 

But  now  other  members  of  the  party  pressed  forward  to 
have  their  fortunes  told.  This  was  a  critical  test  for  Hart, 
as  he  was  not  familiar  with  their  history,  and  he  feared  that 
perhaps  he  had  over-estimated  himself,  after  all,  in  bidding 
Jack  to  bring  along  chance  comers. 

However,  he  still  had  his  fancy  and  the  future  to  draw  on, 
and  so  predicted  for  one  an  alliance  with  a  North  American 
Indian  ;  for  another,  the  equivocal  dignity  of  an  elevation  to 
the  restored  throne  of  Republican  France ;  for  another,  the 
cheerful  revelation  that  she  would  be  wrongfully  sentenced  to 


356 


Lucy  and  the  Forttme-Teller . 


death  for  murder,  and  pardoned  at  last  on  the  scaffold  ;  and 
for  another,  the  equally  cheerful  alternative  of  being  the 
wife  of  three  drunkards,  each  one  a  worse  sot  than  the  first, 
or  of  being  "  cycloned  "  into  a  volcano,  and  there  entombed 
alive. 

The  next  morning  the  two  young  men  met  again  by 

appointment. 

"Jack,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Hart,  "  I  beg  to  congratulate 
you  once  more.  Yesterday  I  read  Miss  Lucy's  hand  ;  to- 
day I  read  your  face.     She  accepted  you  on  the  spot,  eh  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  and  I  herewith  ask  you  to  our  wedding,  on  the  sev- 
enth day  of  the  seventh  month  — that  is,  next  July." 

"You  are  a  rascally  lucky  fellow.  Jack ;  but  you  don't 
deserve  your  good  fortune.  Do  you  know,  I've  been  dream- 
ing about  that  girl  all  night.  If  I  had  known  she  was  half 
so  pretty,  I  would  not  have  told  her  fortune  ;  I  would  have 
cut  you  out.     Aren't  you  afraid  of  me,  even  as  it  is  ?  " 

Jack  laughed— an  easy,  good-natured  laugh.  "I  will 
introduce  you, ' '  he  said,  ' '  and  she  will  take  you  for  the  '  out- 
law, '  and  be  afraid  of  you.  But  what's  the  reason  you  never 
married,  old  fellow?  You  would  be  more  than  a  match  for 
the  cleverest  girl  in  England ;  you  could  win  whom  you 

pleased." 

"  I  have  helped  my  friends  in  their  love-affairs  time  and 
again,  Jack,  but  where  I  am  concerned  myself,  I  have  scru- 
ples about  these  things.  However,  I  never  had  any  heart 
troubles.  —  I  say.  Jack,  I  want  you  to  drop  a  hint  some  day 
to  those  stupid  gallants.  One  might  woo  his  sweetheart  in 
the  guise  of  an  Indian,  and  another  as  a  'mountain-climber,' 
and  so  on  ;  and  the  young  ladies  would  take  it  all  as  a  good 
joke,  and  accept  it  as  a  marvelous  fulfillment  of  the  gipsy's 
prophecies. ' ' 

Hart  was  introduced  to  Miss  Lucy,  and  the  warmest  afifec- 


Lucy  ami  the  Fortuue-Jeller. 


357 


affold  ;  and 
■  being  the 
an  the  first, 
e  entombed 

t  again  by 

longratulate 
s  hand  ;  to- 
spot,  eh?" 
,  on  the  sev- 
ily." 

it  you  don't 
been  dream- 
she  was  half 
would  have 
.tis?" 
h.  "  I  will 
for  the  '  out- 
on  you  never 
a  match  for 
i  whom  you 

lirs  time  and 
I  have  scru- 
d  any  heart 
int  some  day 
sweetheart  in 
:ain-climber,' 
all  as  a  good 
f  the  gipsy's 

irarmest  affec- 


tion  sprang  up  between  them.     But,  even  as  Jack  saul,  she 
looked  upon  him  with  a  vague,  unrestful  feeling  that  m  the 
dim  future  he  would,  by  some  process  of  evolution,  metamor- 
phose himself  into  the  gipsy's  outlaw.     Hart  would  never 
betray  any  confidences  reposed  in  him,  even  to  expose  decep- 
tion, so  that  the  secret  was  safe,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned. 
Preparations  for  the  wedding  went  on  gaily.     A  few  days 
before  the  date  fixed  for  the  great  event.  Lucy  said  to  Jack  : 
..  Do  you  know,  my  dear  Jack,  I  am  going  to  try  and  find 
our  gipsy  prophetess  again.     There  are  a  great  many  thmgs 
that  I  wish  to  consult  with  her  about." 

'  •  You  will  hardly  find  her,  Lucy.  She  is  probably  off  on 
her  broomstick  among  the  stars  she  talked  of  so  glibly. 

"Jack  '  How  can  you  speak  in  that  way  of  that  giltea 
woman  !  wShe  may  be  able  to  overhear  you,  for  all  you  know, 
even  from  the  stars.     Do  be  careful ! "  ^      ,  ,. 

"Yes-  but  you  know,  Lucy,  my  destiny  was  fixed  the 
moment  'you  accepted  me  ;  so  V  can  say  what  I  please.  But 
if  you  really  want  to  see  the  old  gipsy,  I  can  present  you  to 
that  personage  in  fifteen  minutes."  ,      ,,, 

"  You  can  !     Pray,  are  you  in  league  with  her  ? 
This  was  said  without  any  suspicion  whatever  -  perhaps 
without  any  meaning  whatever.     But  Jack  Ij-^  long  felt  it 
his  duty  to  tell  Lucy  the  whole  truth,  and  he  thought  this 
an  opportune  time  to  do  so.  ^      .      ^  •.     x*. 

"  Lucy,"  he  said,  "  I  will  make  no  more  ado  about  it.    It 
was  all  a  scheme  between  Montague  and  me  ;  your  old  witch 

was  that  rascally  dog." 

A  pale  little  face  quivered  for  a  moment,  and  then  poor 
Lucy  swooned  away.    Jack  ran  terrified  from  her  presence 
and  on  returning  in  the  evening  was  pohtely  informed  that 
Miss  Lucy  was  unable  to  see  him. 

It  was  several  days  before  Lucy  was  able  to  leave  her 


358 


Lucy  and  the  Fortune-Teller. 


room.  Her  first  act  on  being  able  to  sit  up  was  to  write 
Jack  a  frank  little  note,  that  proved  at  once  she  was  in  full 
possession  of  her  reasoning  faculties,  if  not  very  well. 

This  note  gave  Ivim  to  understand   that  he  need  never 
show  his  cruel,  w^.y  ':<ce  in  her  father's  house  again  ;  that 
she  despised  him  as  being  worse  than  a  criminal  ;  that  she 
had  never  loved  him  ;  that  he  miyht  have  brought  his  con- 
fession around  in  a  way  to  win  her  sympathy  ;  that  she  al- 
ways hated  him  ;  that  his  friend  was  quite  free  from  blame  ; 
that  she  might  have  married  him  a  year  ago,  if  he  had  had 
any  energy  or  decision  ;  again  that  she  despised  him  ;  that 
his  plot  was  not  clever,  it  was  childish  ;  that  he  was  a  cred- 
ulous, infatuated  fool ;  that  he  might  have  won  her  without 
resort  to  any  wicked  stratagem  ;  and  finally,  again  that  she 
despised  him  and  would  not  see  him. 
Poor  little  Lucy  ! 

It  was  Jack's  turn  to  be  ill  when  he  received  this  letter. 
It  drove  the  faint-hearted  fellow  to  despair,  and  effectually 
4isf. bused  his  mind  of  any  further  belief  in  his  friend's  daz- 
zling prophecies  about  battle-fields  and  martial  renown. 

Lucy  t  ^covered  finally  on  the  13th  of  July.  On  that  fate- 
ful day,  at  7  P.  M.,  her  mind  was  clear  and  decided  on  many 
points— perhaps  on  most  points. 

It  can  easily  be  guessed  how  things  shaped  themselves. 
Lucy,  as  many  another  young  lady  would  have  done,  mar- 
ried Hart  Montague  ;  and  in  her  that  young  rascal  found  a 
wife  whom  he  does  not  deserve,  but  whom  he  loves  dearly. 

Lucy  still  believes  that  seven  and  thirteen  are  her  lucky 
and  unlucky  numbers,  and  takes  a  solemn  interest  in  tracing 
out  how  they  are  alternately  chasing  each  other  in  the  most 
trivial  affairs  of  her  everyday  life.  She  has  even  persuaded 
Hart  to  promise  to  take  her  to  Rome  when  the  seventh  year 
period  shall  come. 


was  to  write 
e  was  in  full 
well. 

need  never 
again  ;  that 
al  ;  that  she 
gilt  his  con- 
that  she  al- 
from  blame ; 
t  he  had  had 
d  him  ;  that 
2  was  a  cred- 
i  her  without 
fain  that  she 


d  this  letter, 
id  effectually 
friend's  daz- 
renown. 
On  that  fate- 
ided  on  many 


Lucy  and  the  Fortune-Teller. 


359 


As  for  poor  Jack,  he  thought  seriously  of  studyuig  law,  but 
finally  decided  on  entering  the  army  by  buyii.g  a  commis- 
sion. It  is  somewhat  remarkable  how  curiously  events  will 
come  about  in  this  uncertain  world. 

The  moral  of  this  story  may  or  may  not  be  that  the  swain 
who  can  not  manage  his  own  love-affairs  without  calling  in 
the  interference  of  outsiders,  richly  deserves  to  be  punished 
for  it. 


i  themselves, 
/e  done,  mar- 
ascal  found  a 
)ves  dearly, 
are  her  lucky 
rest  in  tracing 
er  in  the  most 
ven  persuaded 
i  seventh  year 


36o 


^  H^onuui's  Hand. 


A  WOMAN'S  HAND. 

Only  a  linml,  a  woman'it  hand, 

Ungloved  anil  fair  and  liglit  of  touch ; 
And  yet  no  fairy's  golden  wand 

Could  ere  acconipli«U  half  »o  much. 
Great  inrtuence  hath  an  earnest  word, 

Much  meaning  'a  in  a  kindly  glance ; 
U.it  ah !  how  is  the  life-blood  stirred, 

From  finger  tips  to  heart's  expanse, 
By  lightest  touch  of  woman's  hand ! 

•Twas  hut  a  hand,  a  woman's  hand. 

And  yet  it  saved  a  soul  from  death. 
A  felon,  bearing  murder's  »)rand. 

Soft  felt  it,  and  quick  held  his  breath  ; 
The  first  time  he  had  felt  so  thrilled 

Since,  brooding  o'er  his  life  misspent, 
He  clasped  his  mother's  hand,  death-stilled, 

He  sobbed  %nd  prayed,  and  died  content  — 
Saved  by  a  nun's  pure,  pale,  cold  hand. 

■Twas  but  a  hand,  a  woman's  hand 

And  yet  it  stopped  a  deadly  blow  ; 
Shamed  men  no  strong  words  of  command, 

Or  threat*,  or  stripes,  or  life-blootVs  flow 
Could  have  s  bdued— yet  light  its  touch. 

A  ronipiiife  maiden  left  her  play 
To  fetch  a  lame  man  his  lost  crutch ; 

She  soon  forgot,  but  all  the  day 
His  thoughts  dwelt  on  her  willing  hand. 

•Twas  but  a  hand,  a  sweetheart's  hand. 

Held  tightly  in  a  long  farewell ; 
Months- years -might  pass  ere  he  should  land 

And  sweet  should  ring  their  marriage  bell. 
Yet  through  the  years  he  would  owe  much 

Of  happiness,  uncursed  by  fears. 
Unto  the  mem'ry  of  that  toucb 

(Dear  as  her  kisses  or  her  tears) 
Of  her  confiding,  loving  hand. 


t  ~ 


*■    "  ■'!'iL':JWri-«fW""»^'^ 


^s^ 


''^> 


i 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WIST  MAIN  STMIT 

WnSTIM,N.Y.  MSN 

(716)S72-4S03 


'  ■.i>K  tWrai'''  «■-».■  "1  »JB  I  "J«  NB^I.Wf 


»' 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICJVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


\ 


jf 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


(Mv  Girlhood  TDays^ 


361 


MY  GIRLHOOD  DAYS.* 


I  FEAR  I  was  a  saucy  child, 

A  joyous  little  madcap  thing, 
III  my  abandon  wholly  wild, 

As  some  glad  bird  upon  the  wing. 
My  home,  a  quaint  and  lonely  spot, 

Almost  upon  a  river, 
Where  wood-capt  hills  the  landscape  dot ; 

While  tall  pines,  that  would  shivei 
And  murmur  in  the  eddying  wind. 

Stood  near,  and  seeiiied  so  grand  and  kind. 

The  river  leapt,  scarce  a  bow-shot 

Beyond  us,  in  a  double  fall ; 
Though  busy  mills  its  beauty  blot, 

Yet  man's  work  could  not  blot  it  all. 
For  Nature  will  assert  herself. 

Despite  the  havoc  man  may  work ; 
Despite  his  cunning  plans  for  pelf, 

There  must  a  wayward  beauty  lurk 
In  God's  creations  ;  and  so  here 

A  calm,  weird  charm  drew  artists  near. 

The  drowsy  cadence  of  the  falls. 
Faint  echoes  of  the  city's  noise. 

The  plaintive  whip-poor-will's  far  calls. 
The  hearty  shouts  of  gleeful  boys  — 


.  Written  for  ayoung  lady,  who  was  loo  indolent-  or  too  sensible  -  to  make  her 
own  verses.  —  b  .  w .  m  . 


362 


gvfy  Girlhood  'Bays. 

These  came  with  ev'ning;  while  the  lights 

Of  our  great  city,  all  about, 
Flasht  brightly,  save  on  misty  nights 

They  glimmered  faintly,  as  ui  doubt. 
But  ah !  how  grand  the  river-scene. 

Illumined  by  the  full  moon  keen ! 

I  watched  the  quick  trains  come  and  go. 
Along  the  bridge,  'cross  busy  streets. 
Just  past  our  door,  when  they  would  slow, 

The  while  the  engineer  kind  greets 
This  fearless  maid,  as  home  from  school 
I  laughing  came,  with  bag  of  books, 
Anmsed,  perhaps,  I  broke  some  rule. 

At  home  from  school,  my  rustic  nooks 
I  sought,  to  con  my  lessons  o'er. 

Or  o'er  some  wild  romance  to  pore. 

A  dual  life  was  mine ;  I  knelt 

At  Nature's  sl.rine.  and  then  I  strayed 
The  busy  streets  along ;  I  felt 

Both  country  lass  and  city  maid. 
While  in  the  high-backt  pew  I  sat 

Demurely  with  my  mother, 
Or  up  and  down  the  river-flat 

Rompt  madly  with  my  brother, 
I  knew  the  country's  freedom  wild, 

Yet  felt  a  city-cultured  child. 

As  many  a  golden  afternoon 

I  rowed  adown  my  mystic  stream 
I  thought  the  hours  went  by  too  soon. 

In  my  fantastic,  girlhood  dream 
Of  greater  cities,  other  lands, 

Where  I  should  some  day  wander  far. 
The  fall  of  night  brought  reprimands 

From  parents,  who  would  fain  debar 
The  rapture  that  I  felt  to  float 

On  long  excursions  in  my  boat. 


hts 


o, 

ts, 

ow, 

i 

ol 

18, 


(My  Girlhood  'Days. 

Through  woods  in  autumn  and  in  spring 

I  wandered  'raptured,  for  a  sense 
Of  grandeur  fired  me,  and  did  bring 

Their  beauty  to  me,  strong,  intense.  - 
Alas !    all's  changed,  and  changed  am  I, 

But  still  that  buoyant  feeling 
I  caught  from  river,  hills,  and  sky. 

Quick  over  me  comes  stealing, 
When  with  closed  eyes  I  clearly  see 

My  moou-loved  river,  flowing  free. 


363 


ooks 


rayed 


er  far. 

[s 
debar 


364 


How  He  Qiiit  Smoking. 


HOW  HE  QUIT  SMOKING.* 

((  J  rr^AlN'T  no  manner  of  use  to  say  you  can't  keep  from 
T     ffettin    about  these  things,"  said  the  old  man 
1      ireiun  «T^mme  tell  you  how  I  quit 

in  his  slow,  dogged  way.        Lemme  leu  y 

„e,  a.  ever  I  «s ;  a";  ^^  -^.^^  ^^  f^tur  say.  .0  n,e 

"  '.'  ""  nt^  si  he  '^m  y°"'-  a-goin'  .0  kill  your- 
one  day,  J'"' /'yl"''  ■'.j.^ifuu  of  nikkerteen,'  says 
r:'"*e  ptltTnd  of  ^ufflhey  is.  Vou  can'.  ,uit 
riki?  anTur  age/ says  he.  .but  you-dorterp^n^e^^^ 

^'-^  rpt  -  rnXutr tnlteTLTs  r:n.  then, 

'Kl  ^X^  n^^J-irSidlhout  ZJ  .he 
ZL  re^tonM  Tdassn't  try  it.  But  rd  give  my  word, 
yrs^e  ttri  d  do  it,  an-that  ■twouldn't  kill  me,  nerther ; 

^  I  yXsir:  I  done  it ;  I  quit  sm^in^tha^Zery^ay^^!^' 

■ '■,       Z^TZTZT^aok     "ThB  GfBAT   TEN-DOI.I.AR 

»Takeu  from  the  MS.  of  my  booK,      ibb,  vr 

I,AW-SUIT."-B.  W.M. 


IG.* 

an' t  keep  from 
the  old  man, 
,u  how  I  quit 
hain't  tetched 
au.and  I  wan't 
ystem  nor  you 
ears  without  it, 
le  notiont  takes 

ictur  says  to  me 
in'  to  kill  your- 
ikkerteen,'  says 
You  can't  quit 
ter  git  nice,  clean 
ur,'  says  I,  'I'U 
ays  I,  'an' then, 
I  that,  Jim,'  says 
e.  _  '  Not  yit ! ' 
about  it,  an'  the 
give  my  word, 
kill  me,  neither ; 

very  day.   I  went 


tRBAT   TEN-DOI.I.AR 


How  He  Qiiit  Smoking. 


365 


out  an'  bought  a  bran'  new  pipe,  with  a  long  handle  onto  it 
that  'd  set  into  my  mouth  jest  as  comfurtable,  an'  then  I  got 
some  splendid  terbakker,  better' n  I'd  been  used  ter  allowin' 
myself,  an'  I  took  'em  along  home,  an'  I  shaved  that  terbak- 
ker up  jest  as  fine,  an'  put  it  into  that  there  pipe,  an'  prodded 
it  down  with  my  little  finger,  an'  lighted  a  sliver  into  the 
stove,  an'  hilt  it  about  six  inches  above  that  pipe,  an'  pur- 
tended  I  was  a-goin'  to  have  a  good  smoke.     But  I  never 
done  it.     I  put  that  pipe  up  onto  thechimbley-piece,  where 
my  old  one  used  ter  set,  an'  rested  the  bowl  agin  the  fur 
aidge  of  the  wall,  an'  h'isted  the  stem  acrosst  my  gran'- 
father's  old  spectickle  case,  where  it  could  p'int  at  me,  jest 
as  coaxin'  an'  as  natcheral,  an'   then  put  some  nice,  long 
lighters  alongside  of  it.     You  know  in  them  days  matches 
was  scarce  an'  poor.     They  was  high,  too.     Then  I  takes 
away  my  old  pipe,  an'  I  says  to  it,  kinder  solemn,  like,  'The 
time's  come  fur  us  to  part, old  feller,'  .says  I ;  'but  'tam't  me 
that's  got  ter  go ;  it's  j<7«.'     I  'most  cried,  though,  to  throw 
the  old  pipe  into  the  stove,  an'  know  that  was  the  'final 
end'  of  it,  as  the  sayin'  is. 

"Jest 's  I  got  the  stove-led  on  agin  the  old  woman  come 
in,  an'  I  ups  an'  says  to  her,  '  Hanner,'  says  I,  '  I've  quit 
smokin' ;  so  you  wun't  have  no  more  cause,'  says  I,   '  fur  to 
go  jawin'  around  about  me  settin'  onto  the  table,  smokin  , 
an'  a-spittin'  onto  the  floor.'— 'Jim,'  says  she,  'Jim,  what 
fool  tricks  are  you  up  to  now  ?    You  know  you  can't  keep 
from  smokin'  no  more  'n  you  can  from  talkin'  ! '  says  she. 
—  But  I  took  an'  showed  her  the  bran'  new  pipe,  an'  she 
allowed  I'd  got  some  queer  notiont  into  my  head,  anyhow  ; 
but  she  let  on  that  she  reckoned  I  couldn't  never  hold  out. 
This  r'iled  my  grit,  an'  I  was  determined  not  ter  tetch  terbak- 
ker.    The  old  woman  used  to  watch  me  pretty  sharp,  along 


li 


How  He  Qiiit  Smoking. 


] 


366 

at  first,  to  see  ef  I  didn't  go  an'  smoke  on  the  sly;  but  bimeby 

-"'^^^^on  a  .osty  .omin',  you U.^.  wbe^r^ 
be  a-walkin'  behind  two  fellers  smoktn'.  an'  the  smoke    d 
l^e  a  waftin-  back  ter  me.  like.  I'd  feel  jest  '-    I  ^-^^^ 
to  take  '  two  whiffs  an'  a  spit.'  as  the  sayin'  is.     AH  the  time 
rk„o:ed  there  wasapipeathomea-waitin^  fur  nie^^^^^^^^^^ 
fur  a  good  smoke ;  an'  sometimes  when  I  d  go  home  feelin 
kinder  hungry.  I'd  go  an'  take  a-holt  of  it  an'  exarnine^^at 
it  was  all  right,  an'  I'd  say  to  it.  sorter  boastin',  hke.   Well 
nWbov     I'd  say    '  don't  you  feel  terryble  lonesome,  a-laym 
here  :U  aloneT' '  Then  I^  put  it  back  agin,  where  the  stem 
roiild  keeo  a-p'intin'  at  me.  .   ,  •    i.u 

•At  first  I  used  to  have  the  awfullist  time  a-puttin  in  the 
long  evenin's  ;  but  when  I  got  wore  down  to  it  I  found  I 
coiUd  L  an'  talk  to  Hanner  an'  folks  that  'd  come  in  jes 
as  clever  'sever  I  could.     They  used  to  joke  me  some  abou 
it  but  they  got  over  that  when  they  see  how  fearful  deter 
mined  I  wL     The  new  pipe  used  to  be  smoked  now  an 
Tn  by  t^e  boys  that  come  in.  jest  to  keep  up  its  spints 
Uke    an'  they  used  to  say  it  'd  draw  beautiful.     But  I  neve 
doL'  no  more'n  purtend  to  take  a  few  whiffs  at  it  when  I 
filled  it  agin.     I  always  kep'  it  filled  an'  kemspicuous  righ 
there  onihe  chimbley.  an'  when  the  terbakker  runned  out 

I  got  some  more.  .  .. 

' '  Bimeby  somebody  let  it  fall  plumb  onto  the  coals,  an  it 
got  cracked  an'  sp'ilt.  I  felt  terryble  bad  ter  see  it  go. 
Sough  I  hadn't  never  tried  it  fair,  with  the  te5bakkerre^^>' 
afire  Hows'ever,  I  went  an'  got  another  Ff^.-J^f^^"; 
abler  'n  the  old  one;  my,  it  wasadaisy  '— "  Ifi"f^^*". 
put  it  in  the  old  spot,  where  it  could  lay  a-p'intm  at  mean 
a  temptin'  me.  Hanner.  she  scolded  some  abou  me  go  in 
an'  buyin-  more  pipes,  jest  fur  to  look  at.  when  I  might  a 


1 


r;butbimeby 

ow,  when  I'd 
he  smoke  'd 
s  ef  I  wanted 

All  the  time 
r  me,  all  ready 
>  home  feelin' 

examine  that 
/.like, 'Well, 
:some,  a-layin' 
vhere  the  stem 

i-puttin'  in  the 
)  it  I  found  I 
i  come  in  jest 
me  some  about 
w  fearful  deter- 
aokcd  now  an' 
up  its  spirits, 
il.     But  I  never 
I  at  it  when  I 
nspicuous  right 
Iter  runned  out 

the  coals,  an'  it 
i  ter  see  it  go, 
terbakker  really 
pipe, —  fashion- 
an'  I  filled  it  an' 
'intin'  at  mean' 
about  me  goin' 
hen  I  might  'a' 


How  He  Quit  Smoking. 


367 


got  her  some  liver  med'cine  ;  but  I  told  her  I  couldn  t  git 
along  nohow  without  a  pipe  about  the  house.     It's  a  terryble 
comfurt  to  think  that  it's  there,  ready  fur  me  '  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice,'  as  the  sayin'  is.     It's  a-waitin'  fur  me  now  ; 
all  I  got  to  do  when  I  git  home  is  to  take  an'  light  a  match, 
an'  eive  a  good  pull,  an'  there's  my  pipe  a-smokin    away, 
jest  as  sosherable.    But  I  ain't  a-goin'  tertetch  it,  except  jest 
ter  sorter  shake  hands  an'  joke  it  about  feelin'  so    onesome. 
"  There's  the  old  doctur,  now  !     I'll  jest  go  an   ask  him 
what's  the  reason  some  folks  can't  quit  smokin'  a  pipe  with- 
out gittin'  theirselves  buried  fur  it !    I've  joked  him  about 
it  more'n  a  hundred  times." 

But  the  spry  old  doctor  dodged  around  the  corner  and  was 

gone. 


■^•^s:^^4^ 


368 


"  C  Vs/  pour  Toujours,  Owelty. 


"C'EST  POUR  TOUJOURS,  NELLY." 

To-day  I  lifted  dry-eyed  from  their  grave 

Such  sad  mementoes  of  the  wretched  past 

As  in  my  bitterness  I  once  had  cast 

Away  from  me,  as  being  gifts  you  gave, 
Though  which,  for  mem'ry's  sake,  awhile  I  'd  save. 

Safe  in  a  limbo,  whence  I  hoped  at  last 

To  give  them  up  unto  destruction's  blast. 

When  my  poor  heart  had  ceased  for  you  to  crave. 
I  gave  no  thought  to  long  and  wasted  years, 

Which  are  forever  lost,  but  had  no  will 

To  handle  but  with  awe  these  souvenirs  — 
For  through  my  heart  there  shot  the  old-time  thnll, 

E'en  though  these  mute  things  seemed  instinct  with  jeers, 

To  find,  though  all  is  lost,  I  love  you  still. 


Her  Story  and  His  Story. 


3^9 


LY." 


:rave. 


rill, 

ict  with  jeers, 


HER  STORY  AND  HIS  STORY. 

AN  acquaintance,  recently  married,  after  long  years  of 
patient  waiting,  to  an  old  widower,— sincere,  unpre- 
tentious, and  rough-and-ready,  a  typical  Canadian,— gave 
her  admiring  relatives  and  friends  this  startling  account  of 
her  newly-acquired  husband's  ancestry  and  former  great- 
ness :  — 

"Yes,  girls ;  Mordecai  comes  of  a  very  old  family.    They 
were  the  wealthiest  and  most  aristocratic  people  in  Central 
Ontario,  and  held  vast  estates  right  in  the  heart  of  what  is 
to-day  the  city  of  Belleville.      Mordecai  often  tells  of  his 
wild  adventures  as  a  boy  in  that  mountainous  region,  where 
he  killed  the  most  ferocious  bears— just  for  sport,  you  know. 
Once  he  killed  a  noble  stag,  after  a  terrible  struggle.     He 
was  so  venturesome  that  he  often  wandered  away  alone,  with- 
out any  of  his  father's  retainers,  or  even  a  guide.     Yes, 
giris ;  he  killed  this  stag,  when  his  own  life  was  in  deadly 
peril,'  and  afterwards  presented  it  to  the  Smithsonian  Insti- 
tute at  Washington.     If  we  ever  go  to  the  American  capital, 
we  must  certainly  make  it  a  point  to  see  it.     Mordecai  is 
acquainted  with  two  members  of  the  President's  cabinet  and 
with  a  number  of  senators,  besides  knowing  the  Premier  of 
Canada  and  all  his  cabinet !  " 

"  Oh,  how  nice  that  must  be  !  "  sighed  a  fair  listener. 

"Yes,  giris  ;  I  will  tell  you  presently  about  our  visit  to  the 


Her  Story  and  His  Story. 
370 

,„„rk,  Mordecai  say»  *=  ™"  °'  7,',''  't'L,  ,ucl,  a  mag- 
.he  S»u...«.ni.n  •■7'»« -,*'^  '^t,  h"  ha,  on.  very 
niBcent  specmen  of  the  antlemi  '»  „,,,h„^  by 

can  rarely  be  persnaded  .0  'TTZtr^^m-^om 
kind  to  his^vidowcd  mother    One  day  ^  ^^^^^^ 

^^r^^^nrr^fEisr^n.. 

TheykepfopenhouK    .ndttorsp.c.o  ^_^^  ^^^  ^^__^ 

rrr^"-  ry^Melnain,  *e  better  p..a.d 

"%r»n;'tnr^l!-rconra.eo.aUd^M^^^^^ 
=      Hop  ilav  it  was  necessary  for  a  messenger  lu  u^ 
mother  was.    One  day  ii  waj.  distant     The  family 

sent  to  Toronto,  one  hundred  m  les  d^^^^"^-   ^  ^ 

servants  kept  up,  sathat,  °" '7^*'"^^^,  ^^  be  despatched 
.as  no  trustworthy  person  -J>-^^^^^^^^^^  Ictually 

on  this  important  mi^ion.  /I^^^^J^""""";^  she  did  ^^     Mor- 
undertook  to  drive  there  alone,  girls ,  and  sne  am 


about  to  re- 
;d  endowing 
such  a  mag- 
las  one  very 
ce  chased  by 
man  that  he 
;t9.    But  if  he 
ould  —  would 
-house,  where 

was  extremely 
be  was  unwell 
e  little  fellow 
urb  his  mother 
as  as  innocent 
ng  prince. 
;h  and  for  some 
ned  Provincial 
i  his  name  from 
ek  with  them, 
nsion  contained 
id,  for  all  that, 
;  better  pleased 

lady  Mordecai's 
messenger  to  be 
It.  The  family 
s,  and  after  the 
large  a  retinue  of 
•  occasion,  there 
to  be  despatched 
old  lady  actually 
;he  did  i\     Mor- 


Her  Storv  and  His  Story. 


37 1 


decai  tells  how  when  night  came  on  she  put  up  at  a  lonely 
wayside  inn.  near  the  town  of  Newcastle,  and  was  so  nervous 
that  she  remained  awake  half  the  night. -Not  that  she  was 
afraid,  you  know,  for  .she  was  very  courageous  ;  but  the 
novelty  of  the  situation,  as  Mordecai  says,  was  so  startling. 
The  next  day  the  heroic  old  lady  sighted  a  bear,  and  she 
said  if  she  had  had  her  late  hu.sbands  rifle  with  her-it 
descended  to  him  from  the  first  Duke  of  Marlborough,  girls 
—  she  would  have  felled  him. 

"  But  all  this  was  years  ago.  Now  I  must  tell  you  of  our 
visit  to  the  Dominion  capital.  A  mere  description  of  the 
sights  of  Ottawa  would  not  be  very  entertaining,  so  I  will 
pass  on  to  tell  you  of  our  picnic  at  Rideau  Hall.  His  Excel- 
lency's private  secretary  recognized  Mordecai  at  once  as  an 
old  friend,  and  escorted  us  all  over  the  Hall  and  the  grounds. 
"A  sharp  shower  coming  up  unexpectedly,  we  took  refuge 
in  a  lovely  little  .summer-house,  or  pagoda,  where  no  one 
ever  thinks  of  venturing.  But  I  could  see  that  Mordecai  felt 
perfectly  at  home  there. 

"While  we  were  in  Ottawa  he  got  some  lovely  slatted 
lioney— such  a  quantity  of  it,  too  — and  brought  it  to  our 
new  home.  Of  course  we  couldn't  eat  it  all ;  but  Mordecai 
and  I  gave  most  of  it  away— he  is  so  generous,  you  know. 
Well,  he  can  afford  to  be ;  he  is  next  thing  to  being  a  mil- 
lionaire." 

"Oh,  my !"  said  her  listeners,  in  unfeigned  surprise. 
"Yes,  girls.  Mordecai  wa  s  brought  up  with  all  the  choicest 
wines  and  liquors  on  his  father's  table,  as  gentlemen's  sons 
were,  of  course ;  but  he  grew  up  a  thoroughly  temperate 
man,  and  is  a  Prohibitionist  to-day.  I  don't  suppose  he 
would  know  a  drunken  man  if  he  should  meet:  one.  From 
all  this  you  will  see  what  his  principles  are," 
"Yes,  indeed." 


r 


.-2  Her  Story  and  His  Story. 

A.  .Uis  Juncture  Mordeca.  ^  ^1^:^^^ 

„„  j^w4  '■;  -  »::-t,rrs"of°H:s.u. 

"My  parents  kep  » ''"'^'f",  4  i„as  raised  there  and 
county  near  '^'  '  ^^^^^  2-";^^^  I^^  ^  ^_^^^^  ___^_^  ^^^ 

spent  halt  my  l.fe  there.     My  ^^  ^ 

then,  days,  but  aw.ul  c.<«e    -d  '"^  -^    ^^„„„  „,„bers 
his  guests  was  soiuething  f="™^  ,      ^uh  him  - 

of  Parliament  and  0°'='^"'"' °'"''f '  °  w  though  I'm 
„hy,  I  »as  name.,  for  aM»s»chusetts  b,g  bug,  tho  g 
„o  hand  to  brag  '^out  such  thmgs^    As^™- go    g      J^ 
IWe  known  weahbyEngbshm^^^^^^^^^  ^^P  ^^  „^^ 

,0  go  away  fron-.  dad  s  teUmg  «  ^_^^^  .  ^^^ 

the  heartlessest  old  skm-fl.nt  they  eve  ^„etimes 

ordinary  travelers  used  to  I"-"!  ^J"*,^  ^eace.  traveling 
iteametoblow.  a„do.K^a  jus..«  of  *  ^^^  ^^__^^^^^„„, 

rrrte  wtS^aylrcareful afterthat,  wasfather  ; 
behavior.     llewasaiwdy=  uv  .««n*.v  because,  you  see, 

but  that  was  the  way  he  ^^^^XT^llionT^^'^  ^^y^ 
taverns  were  scarce  and  poor  m  that  reg  ^^^^^  ^^^ 

Buttheykep   a  ^ery  respe^ab  e  pja^^^^^^^^^^  ^^^ 

?^ef:rri:s^^^^i^ri^^^^^^^^ 

rrSr^ouir^rfu^Th^^Ice,  and  feed,  the 
•"5;  Bu'Ser'meTwben  I  was  ver>.  young,  and  mother  Uep' 


1,  and  when 
;'s  charming 
way,  to  give 
liis  early  tri- 
s  wandering 
,n  them  that 
e  two  stories. 
11  some  pretty 
ng  ones. 
B  of  Hastings 
ised  there  and 
mart  man,  for 
ised  to  charge 
lown  members 
p  with  him  — 
g,  though  I'm 
s  going  to  say, 
paid  preachers 
:e  that  he  was 
lie  across  ;  and 
that  sometimes 
Peace,  traveling 
is  cantankerous 
;hat,  was  father  ; 
ecause,  you  see, 
I  in  them  days. 
lO  one  could  find 
ageous  charges. 
I  was  oftentimes 
seen  father  then! 
ce,  and  feed,  the 

,  and  mother  kep' 


Her  Story  and  His  Story. 


373 


things  going  for  a  few  years.  She  couldn't  carry  it  on  as  he 
had  done,  and  us  boys  were  too  small  to  run  things,  so  when 
she  saw  she  was  losing  money,  she  sold  out.  One  tune  she 
ran  out  of  liquor.  (I'm  a  teetotaler  myself,  and  vote  for  no- 
whi.skey  candidates,  as  long  as  they  are  good  party  men 
though  I  was  brought  up  right  in  the  midst  of  the  poisonest 
kinds  of  liquors,  though  father  wouldn't  allow  us  to  dnnk, 
he  was  so  close.  But  I  have  seen  so  many  drunken  men 
that  I  never  ^"ant  to  touch  any  spirits.) 

"As  I  was  saying,  mother  ran  out  of  liquor  one  time,  just 
as  an  election  was  coming  on,  and  there  wasn't  a  living  soul 
she  could  send  away  fur  supplies.  She  was  never  any  hand 
to  do  business  by  correspondence,  as  father  was,— 

At  this  point  the  new  wife  made  a  frenzied  attempt  to  head 
him  off.  But  Mordecai  was  a  little  deaf,  and  he  kept  on  in 
the  same  dogged,  ingenuous  way. 

.. and  she  thought  she'd  have  a  nice  httle  excursion, 

any  way      So  she  left  me  and  the  hostler  in  charge  of  the 
tavern,  and  went  away  to  Toronto  on  foot.     She  had  to  go 
on  foot,  though  it  was  a  good  hundred  miles,  because  father  s 
two  horses  and  his  rigs  were  in  Kingston,  sold  to  a  hvery- 
stable  man.     My  mother  was  a  plucky  woman,  though,  even 
for  them  days.     When  night  came  on  she  wasn't  going  to 
spend  any  money  at  taverns,  so  she  just  roosted  m  a  tree 
along  the  wayside,  near  the  little  village  of  Newcastle      But 
she  was  almost  sorry  for  it,  because  she  couldn't  sleep,  hardly. 
—Not  that  she  was  afraid,  you  know,  but  it  was  a  sort  of  a 
novel  situation,  even  for  a  pioneer's  daughter.     The  "ex*  ^^ 
she  fell  in  with  an  old  bear,  and  she  said  if  she  had  had  dad  s 
old  gun  along-it  used  to  belong  to  a  York  County  horse- 
thief  and  dad  kep'  it  in  payment  of  his  bill.    Well,  if  she  had 
had  this  old  gun  along,  she  could  have  got  a  crack  at  that 
bear  for  sure.     But  the  old  lady  got  kind  of  discouraged,  and 


f 


_.  Her  Story  and  His  Story. 

came  back  in  the  stage-coach,  with  a  driver  that  had  an  old 

"TplaLTof 'l^ars.  I  used  oftentimes  to  run  away  from 
homf  where  they  always  kep'  us  working  too  W    a.d 
went  after  bears.     The  country  thereabouts  is  f»ll  f  ^^s 
and  hollows,  and  used  to  be  full  of  game.     ^  -^  «^  ^^^^ 
these  hunters    now-a-days,   that   must  have  their  guides 
along  •  I  always  went  alone,  and  had  more  sport  too.     The 
oW  folks  never  allowed  me  no  spending  money,  but  one  day 
I  ki  kd  a  splendid  buck,  after  a  terrible  fight  with  him,  and 
Jd  it  to  I  professor  that  came  along -not  a  music  pro- 
fessor, you  understand,  but  one  from  a  college.     Well,  that 
st^  wL  put  into  a  museum  at  Washington  !    It's  there 
now.  Ind  Hester  and  me  mean  to  try  and  look  it  up  i^  we 
ever  go  to  Washington.     I  know  two  members  of  the  Pres- 
Ment^^cabinet  down  there,  and  lots  of  Senator,  and  the 
P^mier  of  Canada,  and  dozens  of  members  of  Pariiament ; 

lot  acquainted  with  ^^^Y^;^^--^^^^^^^^^^ 

the  old  St.  Lawrence  and  Ottawa  Railway. 

•iuooose  they  would  remember  me  now. 

'"^.'y",  that  was  a  magnificent  old  buck ;  but  he  nearly 

killed  me.  and  I  was  always  sorry  I  didn't  ask  7''".  ^^^"^ 

sure  the  professor  would  have  given  me  as  much  as  twenty- 

five  dollars  for  him.  j  u^a 

•But  I  didn't  always  have  such  luck.  One  day  I  had 
a  falling-out  with  mother,  and  cooked  my  own  d'««^;--«f 
U  was  f  good  one.  too  !  for  I  was  brought  up  to  wash  dishes 
anlmake  myself  handy  about  the  kitchen.  Ve.  .^  had  a 
few  words  about  something;  and  as  I  wasn  t  feehng  rea 
well  and  wanted  to  brace  up  for  a  party  there  was  to  be^^ 
evening  I  went  out  into  the  swamp  with  my  gun.  First 
thing  I  inew.  I  had  beat  up  a  skunk,  and  if  the  story  wasn  t 
s^To'ng  I  would  give  you  all  the  particulars,  for  it's  a  funny 


Her  Story  and  His  Story. 


375 


it  had  an  old 

n  away  from 
x>  hard,  and 
i  full  of  hills 
[  wasn't  like 

their  guides 
»rt,  too.  The 
,  but  one  day 
with  him,  and 

a  music  pro- 
;.  Well,  that 
i!  It's  there 
jk  it  up  if  we 
rs  of  the  Pres- 
ators,  and  the 
af  Parliament ; 
tion-master  on 
,     But  I  don't 

but  he  nearly 
k  more,  for  I'm 
luch  as  twenty- 
One  day  I  had 
rn  dinner  —  and 
)  to  wash  dishes 

Yes,  we  had  a 
sn't  feeling  real 
e  was  to  be  that 

my  gun.  First 
the  story  wasn't 
,  for  it's  a  funny 


story  enough.     Well,  if  I  hadn't  been  a  first-rate  shot,  I 
shouldn't  have  got  to  that  party  that  night. 

"But  this  was  in  my  childhood.  The  railways  came 
along  and  boomed  things,  and  towns  grew  up  all  over 
Why,  if  my  father  had  only  known  it,  he  could  have  got  all 
the  land  where  the  little  city  of  Belleville  now  lies !  And  if 
dad  had  once  got  it,  and  held  onto  it  after  his  fashion  of 
holding  on.  Hester  here  might  be  a  millionairess  to-day, 
with  her  diamonds  and  French  cooks,  instid  of  being  the 
one  jooel  of  an  old  man  of  fifty-nine,  with  a  poor  fifteen 

*  ^^H^ster  and  me  went  down  to  Ottawa  here  this  summer, 
on  our  wedding  trip.     She  wanted  to  see  the  Governor- 
General's  place,  and  as  I  knew  one  of  the  gardeners  there,  I 
was  sure  we  should  be  able  to  see  what  there  was  to  be  seen ; 
so  we  went.     He  showed  us  all  around,  and  pomted  out  the 
Governor's  private  secretary,  and  we  enjoyed  a  very  pleasant 
afternoon.     But  a  nasty  rain  came  on,  and  we  had  to  take 
shelter  in  a  root-house.    As  I  told  the  gardener.  Ifeltathome 
there,  because  I  was  brought  up  right  out  m  the  country. 
But  the  man  seemed  mad  because  I  didn't  give  him  fifty 
cents  or  a  quarter-and  there  he  was  an  old  friend  of  minef 
"  Before  we  came  away  from  Ottawa,  I  bought  fifty  pounds 
of  strained  honey,  thinking  it  would  sell  first-rate  when  we 
got  home.     But  honey  was  cheap,  and  it  was  no  go.    When 
we  saw  it  was  getting  candied,  we  gave  most  of  it  away. 
But  I  often  laugh  at  my  little  speculation  in  honey  ! 

And  Mordecai  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed  heart- 
ily—but his  wife  had  fainted  away. 


376 


tN^ancy  tAnn's  Elopement. 


NANCY  ANN'S  ELOPEMENT. 

NANCY  ANN  BRIGGS  was  a  rustic  maiden  who  lived 
in  the  north  of  Johnson  County,  Arkansas      She  had 
been  baptised  Nancy  Ann,  and  was  religiously  called  Nancy 
k1  b/her  K-ts  and  all  the  neighbors     P-  yotujg 
woman  !   her  education  had  been  sadly  neglected  ;  but  she 
could  feed  hens  and  turkeys,  ride  a  pony,  rattle  off  simple 
airs  on  the  rickety  melodeon,  and  fashion  Robinson  Crusoe- 
looking  garments  for  her  father  and  her  two  brothers,  with 
any  girl  in  the  county.    She  was  not  handsome,  but  even  her 
brothers  admitted  that,  in  spite  of  her  reddish  hair,  she  was 
tolerably  good-looking,  especially  when  ngged  out  m  gor- 

^'X^rntlbt' father,  who  bore  the  high-sounding  title  of 
Patriarch  Briggs,  had  an  account  of  some  thousands  in  the 
baX^sides'a'large  and  well-stocked  fann.    The  farm  wa. 
to  go  to  the  boys,  of  course  ;  but  Nancy  Ann's  dowry  would 
be  a  modest  fortune  for  a  person  of  her  social  position,  and 
the  stalwart  young  gallants  of  the  neighborhood  wei^  not 
slow  to  find  this  out.     The  most  favored  smtor  was  a  spare 
chuckle-headed  rustic,  with  yellow  hair  and  green  eyes  who 
sported  a  time-worn  pipe,  and  doted  on  his  shaggy  mustache 
and  on  his  huge.  la^y.  good-natured,  good-for-nothing  dog 
Rollo.     About  the  only  inheritance  this  yo»"g  ™;"  f*^ 
Lived  from  his  parents  was  his  name -Manfred  Wallace 
Pilkev     But  this  romantic  name  was  sufficient  inheritance 
and  it  won  Nancy  Ann's  susceptible  heart.    When  she  found 


U^ancy  ^Anil's  Elopement. 


377 


siT. 

ien  who  lived 
as.  She  had 
called  Nancy 

Poor  young 
:ted  ;  but  she 
[tie  off  simple 
inson  Crusoe- 
brothers,  with 
,  but  even  her 

hair,  she  was 
;d  out  in  gor- 

unding  title  of 
msands  in  the 
The  farm  was 
s  dowry  would 
1  position,  and 
hood  were  not 
or  was  a  spare, 
freen  eyes,  who 
aggy  mustache 
or-nothing  dog, 
oung  man  had 
anfred  Wallace 
snt  inheritance, 
iA^hen  she  found 


that  Manfred  was  poor,  she  resolved  to  marry  him,  or  no  one ; 
and  Manfred  seemed  to  be  quite  as  much  in  love  with  her. 

But  Peter  Briggs,  Nancy  Ann's  elder  brother,  conceived  a 
deadly  hatred  for  Manfred,  and  persuaded  himself  that  the 
fellow  was  a  rascal,  bent  only  on  securing  her  money.  He 
tried  to  poison  his  father  against  the  swain  ;  but  the  old  man 
stolidly  refused  to  be  so  poisoned.  Patriarch  shifted  his  quid 
from  one  side  of  his  cavernous  mouth  to  the  other,  a  trick  of 
his  when  about  to  lay  down  the  law  to  his  boys,  and  made 

answer : 

"  Peter,  you  jest  let  'em  alone.  I  tell  you,  Manfurd's  a 
bitlly  fellow  to  work  —  ask  anybody  't  ever  hired  him.  He 
can  haul  more  wood,  and  split  more  rails,  and  break  more 
colts,  and  haul  in  more  hay,  'n  any  man  I  'most  ever  seen. 
Manfurd  can  always  work  for  me,  and  Nancy  Ann  's  goin'  to 
marry  who  she  likes,  same  's  her  mother  did  afore  her. 

D'  you  hear?" 

Then  good  brother  Peter  appealed  to  his  mother,  who 
sarcastically  told  him  that  he  would  do  better  to  look  out 
a  wife  for  himself.  But  the  good  soul  promised  to  remon- 
strate with  Nancy  Ann— which  she  did,  to  no  purpose.  The 
simple  result  was  that  Nancy  Ann  and  Manfred  Wallace 
continued  their  courtship  without  molestation,  while  brother 
Peter  was  not  taken  into  their  counsels. 

But  Peter  was  the  more  firmly  persuaded  of  Manfred's- 
unworthiness  ;  and  he  and  Tom  Sprague,  a  hand.some  young 
farmer,  resolved  to  depose  him.  The  god  of  love  had  tam- 
pered with  Tom's  heart ;  he  was  dreadfully  enamored  of 

Nancy  Ann. 

The  persecutions  of  this  pair  of  schemers  soon  became  so 
intolerable  that  Nancy  Ann  and  Manfred  determined  to 
elope.  Tom  got  wind  of  this,  and  hurried  to  report  to 
Peter,  who  declared  that  by  taking  prompt  and  vigorous 


378  l^ancy  ^nn's  Elopement. 

measures  they  might  disconcert  this  ^'^^^'^;^J^^^X'^ 
begoneness  excited  his  liveliest  compassion,  and  presently  a 
brilliant  idea  flashed  through  his  mmd 

"  Tell  you  what  it  is,  Tom,      he  sam,      wc 
'em  !    You'll  help  me,  a  course  ?" 

•  <  •  Course  I  will ! ' '   returned  Tom,  rolling  his  eyes  wildly. 
' '  What's  the  game,  Pete  ?  "  ,  .     ^ 

^You  know  I  s'pose,  that  that  there  Pilkey  's  a  big  torn- 

fool  of  a  coward  ? "  •  ^  ,       ^m 

"  Well  Pete,  I  reckon  I  know  he  is,"  Tom  said  heartily. 
"  Well'  you  and  me's  kindy  funny  fellows  ;  s'pose  we  play 
a  trick  on  the  rascal.     We  must  do  something  to  git  even 
w  th  him,  anyhow.     D'  you  ever  hear  tell  of  ^f-^^^^ 
Tom  that  swoop  down  onto  lonely  travellers,  and  make  em 
fork  over  all  their  money  and  vallybles?    S'pose  ;t  we  fix 
up  for  highwaymen,  and  stop  'em  as  they  re  gom  off?    It 
would  sefve  'em  right,  I  reckon,  for  puttin    on  style,  and 
tryin'  to  run  off  in  paw's  old  coach,  eh,  Tom  ? 

Tom  darted  Peter  a  look  of  rapturous  delight.       Just  the 
thine  old  boy  ;  but  how'll  you  work  it  ?  " 

Umme  a'bne  for  that !    I'll  fix  up  ^r  the highwayma^ 
and  swoop  down  onto  'em,  and  scare  that  great  noodle  into 
spasms     Jest's  he's  so  scart  he's  'most  dead,  you  come  run- 
r"Lg  to  the  rescue,  like,  and  frighten  me  off.  and  rescue 
Nancy  Ann.     I'll  have  my  own  clothes  on  under  the  high- 
wayman^s.  and  I  wun't  run  far  'fore  I'll  throw  the  highway- 
man's toggery  off  and  come  back  to  help  you.  atid  so  s  to 
make  thfngs^ook  all  right.     Then  we'll  take  Nancy  Ann 
r^L  back  to  the  house  ;  then,  if  Manfurd  ever  dares  show 
h7s  Le  again,  after  makin'  such  a  n'idjut  of  himself,  I  reckon 
te-ll  bundle  him  out  s'm'  other  way.    Then  Nancy  Ann  U 
marry  you.  sure  ;  women  always  do  marry  the  fellow  t  res- 
cues  'em." 


U^ancy  Pirn's  Elopement. 


379 


)m's  woe- 
iresently  a 

hoodwink 

yes  wildly. 

a  big  tom- 

l  heartily, 
ose  we  play 
:o  git  even 
gh  way  men, 
1  make  'em 
e  't  we  fix 
in'  off?  It 
1  style,  and 

"Just  the 

ighwayman, 
noodle  into 
»u  come  run- 
Bf,  and  rescue 
er  the  high- 
;he  highway- 
,  and  so 's  to 
Nancy  Ann 
;r  dares  show 
iself,  I  reckon 
^aocy  Ann' 11 
fellow  't  res- 


"  Jest  so  ;  but  what  'bout  the  driver,  Pete?  They'll  have 
a  driver,  of  course  ;  what  if  he  turns  to,  and  fights  ?  " 

"  My  stars,  Tom  !  that  wun't  do  !  They'll  have  our  Bill 
to  drive  'em  sure,  might  recognize  me  'f  t'others  didn't. 
Tom  I'll  tell  you  !  We'll  git  my  brother  Jim  to  step  into 
Bill's  place.  Jim's  jest  the  chap  for  it ;  Jim's  a  mighty 
lively  boy  ;  always  up  to  some  game." 

"Well,  will  Jim  pitch  in  and  fight  the  highwayman,  or 
what'Uhedo?" 

"I'll  have  Jim  git  fearful  scart,  and  unhitch  the  horses, 
and  beg  for  mercy,  and  gallop  off  for  home,  leavin'  the 
spooneys  in  the  coach  at  the  mercy  of  the  highwayman. 
Then  I'll  scare  Manfurd  'most  to  death.  Wun't  he  just 
howl !    Then  you'll  come  rushin'  along,  and  I'll  make  oflf 

in  ajiffy."  „ 

"And  so  everybody '11  git  scart,  all  around  !  "  said  Tom 

jocosely. 

"  Jes'  so.     Now,  let's  be  off." 

Manfred  Wallace  Pilkey  and  Nancy  Ann  Briggs  made 
every  preparation  to  elope  that  very  evening.  They  planned 
to  slip  away  secretly,  drive  to  the  village  of  ClarksviUe,  and 
be  married.  Once  legally  joined  together,  they  could  defy 
the  petty  persecutions  of  brother  Peter  and  Tom  Sprague. 

Bill,  the  darkey,  the  family  Jack-of-all-trades,  was  to  be 
their  Jehu.  But  when  the  eventful  hour  came,  he  "took 
mighty  sick"  (the  effect  of  a  nauseous  dose  slipped  into  his 
drink  by  Peter)  ;  and  Jim,  who  thrust  himself  in  the  way 
of  the  disconsolate  lovers,  was  asked,  in  sheer  desperation, 
if  he  should  like  a  drive.  Jim,  a  mercurial  and  monkeyish 
hobbledehoy,  had  been  instructed  beforehand,  and  he  guessed 
he  was  always  ready  for  a  drive. 

So  the  three  stole  out  of  the  house,  the  dog  Rollo  at  their 
heels.     It  was  a  beautiful  stariight  night ;  just  such  a  night 


U\^ancy  tAiin's  Elopement. 


r 


.380 

as  a  young  couple  might  choose  for  an  elopement.     Manfred 

and  C  speed'ly  harnessed  a  shuffling    old   nag  to  the 

coach  '  ^  family   heir-loom,   which  had  been  rudely 

fa  honed  by  Patriarch  Briggs'  father,  half  a  centur>.  ^fore. 

"Got  everythink  you  want.  Nancy  Ann,   my  dear? 
Manfred  asked  tenderly.  ,  ... 

.' Yaas.  Manfred.     What  a  long  and  lonesome  road  tt  1 
be  to  the  parson's.    But  then  I' mall  right  with  youtopurtect 

"''•  Yaas,  Nancy  Ann  ;  I'd  fight  for  you  through  fire  and 
water,"  said  Manfred  earnestly,  blinking  his  be^vy  eyes^ 
"  "Bet  you  wun't,  you  blatherin'  ^J'' f^'^f  ^^^ 
..  Bet  you'll  howl  like  a  tom-cat  with  his  tail  froze  off !  And 
rSgallop  off  a  piece  on  paw's  ol'  bob-tail,  and  then  sneak 
back  and  see  the  show  !  Ge  dup.  there,  you  o  ool ! 
G'  -long  I  tell  you  !"  and  Jim.  perched  on  the  roof  of  the 
Ly  vehLl:.  smacked  his  father's  home-made  whip,  and 

Tw  rtd  from  the  Briggs  homestead  to  the  main 
road  which  ran  to  the  village.  From  the  lane,  near  this 
rfn  road,  a  by-road,  thatwentno  whither  in  partjcul^^^^^^^^^^^ 

was  of  no  apparent  use  to  the  Bnggses  or  to  the  county. 
TookUs  start  Jim  did  not  drive  on  to  the  mam  road  lead- 
Tg  to  Clarksville,  but.  according  to  instructions  received 
from  his  brother  Peter,  turned  down  this  by-road.  He  went 
Z^  along,  keeping  up  his  spmts  by  whisthng.  buUymg 
the  nag,  and  calling  out  cheerily  to  Manfred  s  dog. 

The  lovers  in  the  ''coach"  supposed,  of  course,  that  they 

were  traveling  along  the  di«ct  road  to  the  village,  and  phi- 

landered.  as  lovers  will.  ,       ,  ,  ,.       ,» 

'Halt ' "  yelled  a  sepulchral  voice.    "  Stand  and  deliver ! 

A  figure  clothed  in  typical  bandit  attire  sprang  from  be- 


U^aiicy  tAiin's  Elopement. 


381 


Manfred 
lag  to  the 
«en  rudely 
tur>'  before, 
my  dear?  " 

le  road  it'll 
)u  to  purtect 

igh  fire  and 
ivy  eyes, 
uckled  Jim. 
ze  off !  And 
I  then  sneak 
'ou  ol'  fool ! 
e  roof  of  the 
le  whip,  and 

I  to  the  main 
ne,  near  this 
articular,  and 
}  the  county, 
tin  road  lead- 
tions  received 
)ad.    He  went 
tling.  bullying 
dog. 

irse,  that  they 
lage,  and  phi- 
land  deliver ! " 
jrang  from  be- 


hind a  rail  fence  that  skirted  the  road,  strode  towards  them, 
and  seized  the  horse  by  the  bridle. 

Jim  bellowed  a  shriek  that  he  had  reserved  for  tins  occa- 
sion ;  but  it  savored  strongly  of  a  war-whoop  of  delight. 
"What's  the  matter?"  he  thundered,  as  though  he  were 
the  highwayman. 

"  Oh,  Manfred  !  what  is  that  ?  "  gasped  Nancy  Ann. 

"I  dunno— o— o,"  faltered  Manfred,  his  pallor  unper- 
ceived  in  the  obscurity  pervading  the  "coach,"  but  his 
mortal  fright  betraying  itself  in  his  voice. 

Peter  and  Tom  had  not  misjudged  Manfred ;  he  was  an 

arrant  coward. 

Then  the  hideous  figure  in  bandit  costume  presented  a 
pistol  and  threatened  to  shoot  the  driver.  But  it  whispered  : 
"  'Member  what  I  told  you,  you  jack ." 

"  It's  robbers ! "  screamed  Jim.  "  We've  took  the  wrong 
road,  and  robbers  is  all  around  us  !     Manfurd  !    Help  me  !  " 

Then  Manfred  plucked  up  a  grain  of  courage,  thrust  his 
head  out  at  the  window,  and  shrieked,  "  Drive  on  !  We'll 
be  killed 'f  you  don't !  " 

"  I  can' t !  "  Jim  shouted  back.     "  He' s  caught  the  horse, 

and  he's  going  to  shoot !  " 

"  Manfred,  set  on  RoUo  !  "  said  Nancy  Ann. 

Manfred  hastened  to  act  on  the  suggestion.  "Sic  'em, 
RoUo  !    Sic  'em,  the  villains  !  "  he  called  huskily. 

RoUo,  thinking  there  must  be  a  squirrel  somewhere  about 
that  he  was  called  upon  to  chase,  ran  snufiling  and  yelping 
up  and  down  the  road. 

"  Sic  'em,  RoUo  !  "  pleadingly. 

But  RoUo  could  not  be  induced  to  attack  masquerading 
Peter  whose  disguise  he  had  at  once  penetrated,  and  he 
frisked  about  that  worthy  as  though  he  had  found  a  fnend 
indeed. 


382 


V^ancy  tAnn's  Elopement. 


r 


•stand  and  deliver!"  thundered  the  highwayman. 

..  Oh  ManW,  th'  dogs  fascinated  !"   Nancy  Ann  ejacu- 
lated faintly.     "Robber's  bewitched  him! 

"  Drive  on  !  "  gasped  Manfred. 

"  Want  yer  dog  shot?"  yelled  the  highwayman. 

But  Jim  now  scrambled  down  off  the  ■•coach,"  unh. - 

\  Z,  nae   and  galloped  away,  making  a  tremendous 

^l^r  *  that  M."«d  and  Nancy  Ann  should  know,  beyond 

:« lubtrt  he  had  deserted  them,  and  that  they  were  at 

*T:eTough^roS^,'wrfine  effect,  hallooed  an  exe..- 
tiol^fter  the  fteeing  driver,  then  Bung  open  the  d«,r  o   the 

"?to  s«^^!:S'  form  of  words  was  all,  he  believed,  that 
the  highwaymirever  addresses  to  the  unfortunates  whom  he 

"'^Oh!"    groaned  Manfred,     "let  us  go!    We  ain't  got 

~*Sar  !"  screamed  theoutlaw.     "Stand  and  deliver,  or 

•'1  hain't  a  cent,"  protested  Manfred. 

The  loyal  brother  cocked  his  pistol  threa  emngly. 

^/LLv.  But,"  brightening.  ".A.has."  indicating  Nancy 

""""Highwaymen  don't  take  nothin'    from  ladies.'-     saW 
the- roLr,  with   lofty   scorn.     "But  who  is  she?  your 

'^'''sle's  goin'  to  be  my  wife ;  we  was  goin'  to  git  mar- 

"^'^  Coward'"  was  the  answer.      "Coward!     Ask  your 
Cowara  .      w*  ooward  do  you  know  what 

sweetheart  to  ransom  you!    Coward,  ao  you 
highwaymen  do  with  such  fellows  as  you  be  ? 


Ann  ejacu- 


an. 

ch,"  unhar- 

tremendous 

now,  beyond 

;hey  were  at 

id  an  execra- 
;  door  of  the 
ly  disguised : 

aelieved,  that 
ates  whom  he 

We  ain't  got 

nd  deliver,  or 


ingly. 
iicating  Nancy 

ladies,"     said 
is  she?  your 

n'  to  git  mar- 

1 !  Ask  your 
ou  know  what 
3e?" 


U^ancy  t/ltm's  Elopement. 


383 


Then  Nancy  Ann  swooned  away.  An  ordinary  young 
lady  would  have  swooned  away  at  the  outset ;  but  Nancy 
Ann  was  not  an  ordinary  young  lady. 

"  You've  got  a  watch  ;  I  know  you  have  ;  STAN  DAN 
DELIVER  !  "  bellowed  the  highwayman,  at  9  loss  to  know 
how  "chivalrous"  brigands  would  deal  with  that  sort  of 

coward.  .    ,,  •»»     e   a 

"  'Tain't  paid  for  yit,  or  you  c'd  have    t,     Manfred 

"Pretty  fellow,  f  sport  a  watch  't  ain't  paid  for!" 
snorted  the  highwayman.  ^,     e   a  a-a 

At  that  moment  Nancy  Ann  revived,  but  Manfid  did 
not  perceive  it,  and  goaded  to  desperation,  he  blurted 
out  that  the  watch  would  be  paid  for  as  soon  as  he  got 

married.  . 

At  this  candid  statement  the  highwayman  expressed  m- 
tense  scorn.     "  Stand  an'  deliver,  or  I  fire  !  "  he  roared. 

Unobserved,  Jim  now  stole  up  in  front  of  the  "coach, 
nnd  listened  with  all  his  ears.     He  had   dropped   off  the 
horse  when  well  out  of  sight,  and  turned  it  loose,  knowing  it 
would  immediately  pick  its  way  back   to   the   stables  at 

home.  •  J  t> 

"  I— I'll  give  you  a  hundred  dollars  soon  's  I  git  married, 

said  Manfred.  .,   ,  ^t. 

Springing  lightly  into  the  "coach,"  Peter  despoiled  the 
trembling  coward  of  his  watch,  and  tucked  it  away  in  his 
own  pocket.  Poor  Manfred  fetched  a  groan  of  anguish,  but 
offered  no  resistance. 

A  war-whoop  was  heard  in  the  rear,  and  a  sohtary  figure 
was  descried,  hurrying  towards  them  at  a  round  pace.  It 
was  Tom  Sprague,  on  his  way  to  the  "rescue." 

The  highwayman  started,  clutched  his  pistol,  and  then 


8^  ff^amy  trim's  F-hpeitwit . 

«ai.l   faintly   (ana   «npro«.naUy)  :     •' My  stars  !     'taint 

'"^L  instantly  becan.e  as  bold  as  a  /^^ro  c^  -»-- 

L     M^;..  I  "  lip  i«t«reamecl.       I  am  l  airaiu 
"  ait  out  vou  Kreat  vulam  !      ne  hcre.iuicu. 

of  yl  -  ncverta,  !    Her.,  ,ic  •em.  Rollo !  -Whoop,  ...ere ! 
Onnip  'lone  !  "  to  the  rescuer. 
Tl^  p^fended  highwayman  flung  Manfred  hi,  m.pa.d-for 

„aS:.'.ving,-Tain.,.nn^^^ 

rhrwa»  brav" -n  Manfurd  ,  only  fainted;  but  vomen  a  ■ 
Z^io  Ln,.    Wha.  bnUy  fnn,  anyhow  !  G»-'  -';- 
™,,,v  brothers  'd  do  's  much  for  their  sisters  ;  and  I  guess 
p::C  maw  •"  ^ive  in  .  was  right.    Guess  .  know  who  •, 
fit  for  Nancy  Ann  to  marry.'  .     ,.       •  a 

H^h.g  behind  a  tree,  Peter  stripped  off  his  d.sgms-.  and 
making  a  detour,  came  up  in  his  proper  person,  almost  on 

the  heels  of  Tom  Sprague.  .,     ,  „  ^nm  asked  with 

. '  Why .  Nancy  Ann,  what's  the  matter  ?     Tom  asked,  witn 

""^OneTr!-'  cried  Nancy  Ann.    ••  Robbers  was  all  around 

"'■''Why.  Nancy  Ann,"  piped  up  Brother  Peter,  inhisnatural 

voice-  "why  are  j^«  here?    What  has  happened? 

'  .  Robbrrs  attackted  us,  and  on'y  just  left  us."  explained 

^'"StTom  !  you  drove  'em  off!    How  good  you  are  !" 

"^'urcaure"we  scart  'em  off.  I  guess."  Maufred  said 

'"l^And  so  Tom  rescued  you!"    said  Peter.      "Well.  I 


(f^amy  tAmi's  Elopment. 


385 


irs  !     'taint 

of  romance. 

ain't  afraid 

lioop,  there ! 

9  unpalcl-for 
this  brave 
3  his  heels, 
!  Coward's 
ite  him  like 
ate  cowards, 
t  wonien  al- 
ss  there  ain't 
and  I  guess 
know  who  's 

lisguises,  and 
in,  almost  on 

m  asked,  with 

was  all  around 

,  in  his  natural 

ned?" 

IS,"  explained 

lod  you  are  !" 

Manfred  said 

er.      "Well,  I 


always  knowt'd  Tom  waRnt  afraid  of  nothing;  bout  the 
bravest  fellow  I  mu^t  ever  seei.  ;  no  wonder  the  robber  d 
slink  away  wli  n  he  seeti  Tom  comin'  runnin'.— Well,  Man- 
furd,  what  'd  you  do  to  scare   ell)  ?"  „  »,     ,   ^ 

"  I  —  I  got  'em  off  just  afore  Tom  come  along,     Manfred 

*  '^Well  Nancy  Ann,  folks  at  home  '11  be  fearful  .scart,  you 
•way  off  here  at  this  time  of  night.  You  better  go  right 
home,  or  you'll  ketch  cold.-  Come  on,  Manfurd  ;  you  and 
me'U  haul  home  paw's  old  hen-house;  'twouldn't  do  to 
leave  it  behind  for  th'  robber.-  Nancy  Ann,  come,  dear ;  you 
and  Tom  can  walk  home  jest  in  front;  '  tain' t  .so  very  far. 
Manfurd  and  me  's  goin'  to  haul  th'  old  wheehckull. 

And  Nancy  Ann  and  Tom  walked  on  in  advance,  Tom 
feeling  that  he  had  won  the  way  to  her  heart  at  last. 

"Nancy  Ann,"  hesajd,  "soon  's  lean I'moff  f  th'  Black 
Hills,  to -to  make  my  fortune.  Then  I'm  comin'  back, 
rich  as  the  Goulds.     Then,  Nan-n-cy  —  Ann-n . ' ' 

But  here  the  heroic  Tom,  the  gallant  rescuer,  broke  down, 
and  could  not  articulate  further. 

Peter  full  of  jubilance,  and  Manfred,  his  bosom  glowing 
with  rage  and  bitterness,  tugged  away  at  the  venerable 

"coach."  .        , 

Apparently,  Rollo  did  not  like  to  see  his  master  thus  de- 
graded, and  he  barked  peevishly. 

"Git  out,  sir-r,"  said  Manfred  snappishly,  making  a  boot- 
less attempt  to  kick  the  devoted  creature. 

As  the  party  neared  the  home  of  Patriarch  Briggs,  agaunt 
and  shadowy  figure,  trussed  up  in  the  identical  gaments  in 
which  Peter  had  arrayed  himself  when  he  played  the  high- 
wayman, darted  across  the  roadway  ahead  of  them,  appar- 
ently dodging  to  keep  out  of  sight. 


gg  ^ancy  ^nn's  Elopement. 

It  was  Jim,  of  course,  masquerading  for  his  own  amuse- 
ment in  the  costume  which  his  big  brother  had  discarded. 

Rescued  and  rescuers  saw  him.  and  with  an  mvoluntary 
imprecation  Peter  betrayed  himself.  ^    ,     ,•       if 

^Good-for-nothin-   noodle!"    he    muttered    to   himself. 
"  Might  -a-  knowed  better  'n  to  let  him  help  us  ! " 

«  Stop  '  "  shouted  Manfred,  quitting  his  hold  on  the  shafts 
of  the  "coach"  and  bounding  after  the  boy.     "Stop,  will 

you,  or  I'll  heave  a  stone  !  "  .      „  .  ,,     r   ^ 

Tim  did  not  stop,  but  redoubled  his  speed.     But  Manfred 

soon  overhauled  him,  wound  his  arms  around  him,  and  bore 

him  struggling  back  to  the  others. 

"  Same  rig  's  th'  robber  had !  "  Manfred  panted.      What- 

''^nL-though  fast  in  the  clutches  of  Manfred,  though  fear- 
ing terrible  retribution  from  his  brother  and  Tom  Sprague- 

burst  into  a  derisive  laugh.  r    ,  ^  ,    t^v," 

"  Nancy  Ann."  said  Manfred,  "  we've  been  fooled  Th 
robber  was  some  of  these  fellers,  sure  's  guns  '.-What  d 
you  mean  ? ' '  shaking  Jim.     ' '  What' ve  you  t '  say  for  your- 

self?  " 

' '  S'pose  I  wanted  them  clothes  to  git  lost  ?  "  Jim  demanded 
indignantly.     "S'pose  I  wanted  to  lose  that  there  tnask? " 

"So;  jes'   's  I  thought!"  groaned  Manfred.     "  Pack  o 

knaves ! "  .  ,,,  ^a 

"  Yes  ;  and  a  nice  coward  j^ou  was,  wasn  t  you  !     sneered 

Peter 

"So,  you're  a  thief,  are  you,  Pele  Briggs?-Or  was  it 

you,  Tom  Sprague  ?  " 

"I  never  stole  nothin'  ! "  protested  Peter.     "I  give  back 

your  watch." 

"  Oh,  Nancy  Ann  !  " 

"Oh,  Manfred!     Manfred!" 


lis  own  amuse- 
d  discarded, 
in  involuntary 

d    to   himself. 

us!" 

lid  on  the  shafts 

.     "Stop,  will 

But  Manfred 
i  him,  and  bore 

ited.  "What— 

ed,  though  fear- 
Tom  Sprague— 

:n  fooled !    Th' 

uns!  — Whatd' 

t '  say  for  your- 

"  Jim  demanded 
It  there  mask?" 
ifred.     "Packo' 

t  you  ! ' '  sneered 

gs?  —  Or  was  it 

■.     "I  give  back 


O^aticy  tAnn's  Elopement. 


387 


"  Sister,"  said  Peter  earnestly,  "  don't  go  and  fall  in  love 
with  such  a  coward  again.     Oh,  Nancy  Ann,  here's  Tom, 

that  loves—" 

"Tom?     I   hate  him  — and  you,    too!"   flashed  back 

Nancy  Ann. 

Tom  Sprague  sold  his  farm,  and  took  to  braking  on  the 
Missouri  Pacific  —  for  Nancy  Ann  married  Manfred  Wallace. 
The  good  brother  Peter  did  not  grace  the  wedding  with  his 
presence,  perhaps  because  he  was  not  invited  ;  but  Jim  got  a 
goodly  hunk  of  wedding  cake—  which  he  did  not  deserve. 


388 


/In  Early  Snow-Storm. 


AN  EARLY  SNOW-STORM. 

IT  is  good  to  hear  robins  in  spring-time, 

E'en  we  long  for  the  hoarse  frogs  to  croak ; 

How  we  love  to  go  seek  the  first  flowerets, 
Once  we  know  that  the  earth  has  awoke ! 

But  of  all  the  delights  that  I  cherish. 

One  comes  just  as  the  autumn  must  perish, 
One  for  which  I  have  always  a  welcome  — 
The  first  mad  little  snow-storm  of  winter. 

How  we  love  to  behold  the  May-blossoms, 
As  they  scatter  adown  on  the  lawn ; 

Could  we  rise,  what  a  tonic  supernal 

To  be  out  in  the  faint  light  of  dawn  ? 

It  is  sweet  to  pluck  roses  in  summer, 

But  I  hail  with  delight  the  first  comer 
Of  the  early  snow-falls  in  that  season 
When  the  sunshine  is  short  and  so  fickle. 

'Tis  a  treat  in  the  hot  days  of  August 
To  be  lulled  by  the  wild  ocean's  roar; 

It  is  fun  to  go  nutting  in  autumn. 

When  the  picnicking  season  is  o'er ; 

But  the  first  little  snow-storm  quite  daxes, 

With  its  bluster  and  splenetic  phases. 
In  the  chill,  early  days  of  December, 
Ere  we  think  that  the  autumn  is  ended. 

It  is  grand  iu  mid-winter,  when  skating 
In  the  flood  of  the  full  moon  above ; 

But  a  pleasure  that  surely  outweighs  this 
Is  a  drive  with  the  one  whom  I  love. 

So  I'm  happy  to-day  while  it's  snowing, 

And  a  keen  wind  is  icily  Mowing, 

For  I  know  if  the  snow-fall  prove  lasting, 
Ned  will  give  me  a  sleigh-ride  to-morrow. 


Little  Maud's  Wedding  Day. 


389 


roak; 

ke! 


»e — 
ter. 


ckle. 


r; 


LITTLE  MAUD'S  WEDDING-DAY. 

A  UTTLB  verae  is  then  all  that  you  crave, 

Fair  maiden,  when  you  well  know  that  a  score 

Of  cavaliers  would  gladly  give  you  more, 

Or  for  your  sake  would  fearsome  dangers  brave, 

For,  sooth,  I  know  how  fervently  they  rave 

Your  sweetness  o'er,  your  goodness,  and  your  power 
As  a  sweet  singer ;  and  these  touch  the  core 
Of  honest  hearts,  be  maii  or  gay  or  grave. 

Ah !  how  would  these  fond  swains  invoke  the  Muse, 
Did  you.  their  goddess,  deign  them  but  a  band 
Of  ribbon,  or  a  lock  of  hair,  to  lose 

Which  you'd  ne'er  miss,  they'll  cry,  with  flatt'ry  bland; 
But  which  your  noble  womanhood  will  choose 
To  keep  for  him  who's  won  your  heart  and  hand. 


led. 


uting, 
orrow. 


390 


Not  According  to  the  Guide-Books. 


NOT  ACCORDING  TO  THE  GUIDE-BOOKS. 

THE  guide-books  have  it  all  their  own  way.  But  here 
is  a  letter  that  apparently  goes  out  of  its  way  to 
volunteer  information  about  a  beautiful  summer  resort,  that 
any  self-respecting  guide-book  or  newspaper  (Particularly  a 
Philadelphia  paper)  would  promptly  suppress.  To  be  sure, 
the  letter  doesn't  say  or  insinuate  much,  as  the  writers  were 
perhaps  afraid  they  might  get  into  print.  It  runs  m  thts 
way:  — 

.'My  dear  old  chum -.-Well,  here  we  are  at  home 
again,  after  our  summering  in  Atlantic  City.    We  are  veiy 
glad  to  have  a  room  again  large  enough  to  put  a  trunk  in, 
L  it  is  unpleasant  to  have  to  go  out  into  the  hallway  eve^r 
time  a  fellow  wishes  to  get  mto  that  useful  receptade^ 
Dick's  room  was  of  these  cramped  proportions,  but  Tom  s 
and  mine  were  so  generously  ample  as  to  admit  a  treacherous 
rocker  in  one  and  a  writing  table  in  the  other,  which  we 
never  dared  to  use,  lest  we  should  have  to  pay  for  them 
We  miss  the  bracing  sea-breeze,  and  feel  drowsy  and  inert 
but  Tom  says  he  is  sure  he  could  not  take  an  afternoon  nap 
now  if  his  life  depended  on  it.  as  he  should  so  crave  the 
^iLe  of  the  h^f-hourly  roar  and  rattle  of  the  coming 
and  going  excursion-trains -so  -f ^^^^^  ^^J^nfy 
Atlantic  City.    We  are  unanimously  agreed  that  the  only 
pleint  featLs  there  are  the  beach  and  the  Boardwa^ - 
everything  else  is  more  or  less  repellent.     Pleasures  come 


Not  According  to  the  Guide-Boohs. 


391 


»E-BOOKS. 

ay.  But  here 
of  its  way  to 
ler  resort,  that 
(particularly  a 
5.  To  be  sure, 
he  writers  were 
It  runs  in  this 


e  are  at  home 
.    We  are  very 
put  a  trunk  in, 
;  hallway  every 
eful  receptacle, 
ions,  but  Tom's 
lit  a  treacherous 
jther,  which  we 
)  pay  for  them, 
owsy  and  inert; 
in  afternoon  nap 
aid  so  crave  the 
e  of  the  coming 
feature  of  life  at 
sd  that  the  only 
he  Boardwalk  — 
Pleasures  come 


high,  but  a  glass  of  ice-water  and  other  vital  necessities  can 
be  had  from  a  penny  upwards.    They  can  not  be  had  gratis. 
To  be  sure,  you  arc  not  charged  for  sitting  down  on  the 
sand  under  the  Boardwalk,  nor  yet  for  your  mosquito  bites  ; 
but  there  are  sharks  there  who  would  very  much  like  to 
charge  you  for  a  view  of  the  ocean  and  a  sniff  of  the  breeze. 
Coming  out  on  the   Boardwalk    from  say  Pennsylvania- 
avenue,  the  old-fashioned  idea  of  Paradi**  might  suggest 
itself  to  you ;  but  when  you  saunter  on  till  the  hideous 
strains  of  the  merry-go-rounds  assail  your  ears,  the  orthodox 
idea  of  Purgatory  will  be  more  likely  to  suggest  itself.     And 
yet  these  latter  are  ridiculously  popular,  and  like  the  way 
that  is  broad  and  filled  with  many  people,  many  are  the 

people  therein. 

"We  sadly  miss,  this  afternoon,  the  breezy  affabihty  01 
the  five  and  ten  cent  fakirs,  the  Araerican-flag-desecrating 
horrore  of  the  bath-house  owners  along  the  Boardwalk,  the 
discourtesy  of  the  indigenous  police  force  stationed  there, 
the  unobtrusive  bathers  in  their  damp  flannels,   and  the 
gigantic  proportions  of  most  of  our  landladies.    Likewise, 
we  greatly  miss  the  sudorific  effects  of  our  landlady's  tea^f 
which  she  always  brewed  as  uniform  a  cup  as  we  ever  sipped, 
and  the  indomitable  biscuit  that  smiled  upon  us  from  the 
supper-table,  when  we  would  come  home  hot  and  dusty  after 
a  crabbing  expedition  up  the  Thoroughfare. 

"  We  patronized  two  or  three  different  boarding-houses, 
but  stayed  last  aiid  longest  with  a  Mrs.  Clam-chowder.  She 
was  deplorably  ignorant  of  everything  except  natural  his- 
tory.  She  could  not  very  well  be  ignorant  of  the  habits  of 
spiders,  cats,  dogs,  chickens,  mice,  and  Jersey  mosquitoes— 
for  her  house  was  alive  with  them.  We  took  advantage  of 
her  ignorance  (which  we  should  have  pitied  and  respected) 
to  pay  some  very  dubious  compliments  to  her  pets.    For 


393  J^ot  According  to  the  Guide-Books. 

instance,  we  told  her  (Tom  did)  that  there  never  was  a  dog 
that  had  the  insidious  sycophancy  about  him  that  her  Major 
has,  and  then  deprecated  it  by  adding  that  he  ^l^^y^^***"*^^^^ 
it  in  '  Maje '  as  his  most  redeeming  foible.  Then  Dick  told 
her  that  although  he  had  seen  motherly  cats  before,  he  never 
saw  one  that  could  stretch  itself  in  that  graceful  laissez- 
S^  Ttitude  that  her  poor  old  Alf  affected  so  naturally, 
Xn  he  felt  in  a  somnolent  humor,  and  that  there  was  a 
leilduous  peculiarity  in  her  cat's  fur.  that  was  stnkmgly 
apparent  w^n  one  stroked  him.  and  which  no  other  ca 

c^uldhope  to  attain,  even  with  -«-.  J^'^^"  ^^^rs  Clam 
that  they  had  had  chickens  at  home.  '  but  really.  Mrs.  Clam- 
chowder.'  he  said,  'they  hadn't  that  indecorous  voracity 
and  impassive  stolidity,  and  pusillanimous  insouciance  that 
yours  always  s^ow,'  adding  that  he  could  forgive  them  for 
Ch'ring  us  all  so  much,  when  he  thought  of  their  many 
^calcitrant  characteristics.  These  were  all  choice  comph- 
ments  to  her.  and  always  brought  forth  some  tid-bit  m  the 

way  of  fruit  or  pastry.  •  ^  „  «f 

.^  Our  landlady  had  a  servant  who  looked  the  picture  of 

a  contented,  prosperous  waiter.  He  was  a  fif-«"f  «-"f 
in  his  way.  for  he  said  he  could,  on  a  sallery  o^ ^»7-50  per 
month,  lay  up  $200  a  year,  buy  a  twenty-Bve  cent  nove^ 
every  Friday  night,  indulge  in  a  new  corn-cob  pipe  evenr 
six  weeks,  subscribe  for  the  DaUy  Bombast  and  any  sub- 
scription  book  that  has  ferocious  enough  P^<=t;««^J^*'  ^"^ 
him^lf  in  watch-keys  and  hair-oil.  and  send  a  Christmas 

card  to  all  his  friends  twice  a  year. 

"  Fraternally  yours. 

"Tom,  Dick.  &  Harrv." 


To  Death. 


393 


ver  was  a  dog 
bat  her  Major 
ways  admired 
lien  Dick  told 
fore,  he  never 
aceful  laissez- 

so  naturally, 
at  there  was  a 
was  strikingly 

no  other  cat 
Tom  told  her 
lly,  Mrs.  Clam- 
rous  voracity, 
isouciance  that 
)rgive  them  for 
t  of  their  many 
choice  compli- 
e  tid-bitinthe 

i  the  picture  of 
financial  genius 

j'  of  $17.50 per 
five  cent  novel 
-cob  pipe  every 
t  and  any  sub- 
ctures  in  it,  find 
nda  Christmas 


TO  DEATH. 

The  sun  half  dim,  the  river,  ah,  so  calm, 

No  birds,  no  sound,  a  sad  November  hush. 
With  scarce  a  leaf  to  stir  on  tree  or  bush ; 
The  air,  the  clouds,  the  lull,  a  perfect  psalm. 

No  pain,  nor  ling'ring  hope,  nor  passing  qualm ; 
Par,  far  away  from  the  unholy  crush 
Of  crowded  streets,  far  from  the  shrill,  mad  rush 
And  roar  of  trains,  this  quiet  is  a  balm 

That  tempts,  not  soothes.    I  know,  oh  Death,  no  fear ; 
I^ife  hath  no  charm  for  me  in  such  a  place. 
Oh,  welcome  Death !  how  sweet  to  have  thee  near, 

With  face  so  peaceful,  chaste,  and  kind !    Life's  race 
Now  done,  how  restful  seem  these  depths ;  so  here 
I  gladly  throw  myself  in  thy  embrace. 


,  &  Harry. 


The  Old  Hand-Sled. 


THE  OIvD  HAND-SLED. 

T  91T  bv  my  window  to-day, 

And  watch  how  the  snow  silent  falls; 
AS  dreaming,  my  thoughts  drift  away 

To  scenes  that  one  fondly  recalls, 
To  boyhood's  glad  time,  in  years  fled 
And  romps  with  my  old-fash.oned  sled. 

Our  cottage,  for  ninety  long  days. 

Lav  buried— or  almost  — m  snow; 

Ite  coming  filled  young  hearts  with  P""««. 
That  grieved  when  the  spring  saw  it  go- 

For  what  othir  sport  can  compare 

With  sledding  down  hills,  through  keen  air? 

My  chums  my  good  sled  often  sought 

"^  PTwould  carry  four  lads-at  -J«««=»>.) 
Though  home  we  might  bleeding  be  brought. 

From  no  hills  an.und  would  we  flinch. 
My  sled  was  scarce  handled  with  care, 
But  father  had  built  it  for  wear ! 

Tit*  countrv  school-house  on  the  hill 

^  Wrlncircled  with  sleds,  brought  by  boys ; 

The  teacher,  herself,  with  a  will. 

Encouraged  and  ne'er  checked  our  noise 
At  noon-time;  and  one  day  was  known 
To  venture  down  hill,  all  alone  ! 


Is; 


raise, 

it  go- 
to air? 


The  Old  Hand-Sled. 

She  met  with  a  mishap,  of  course ; 

Was  thrown  in  a  snow-bank  full  soon. 
We  cheered,  till  our  throats  were  all  hoarse, 

Her  pluck  —  and  we  had  a  long  noon ! 
Then  sometimes  we  hitched  on  behind 
A  cutter,  whose  driver  was  kind. 

My  sled  was  so  strong  and  so  swift, 

And  oh !  what  a  lark  it  was  thought 

To  steer  for  some  tow'ring  big  drift 
And  bury  the  load  that  it  brought 

Of  boys  — or,  it  may  be,  of  girls, 

Who  scream,  as  the  snow  'round  them  whirls! 

Our  chivalry  then  kiiew  a  code 

More  easily  learnt  than  to-day's ; 

We  seldom  would  draw  up  a  load, 

But  cheerfully  loaned  girls  our  sleighs  — 

Yet  never  a  warning  would  speak 

Of  bumps,  or  of  ice  that  was  weak ! 

There's  winter  to-day  in  my  heart, 
A!id  snow  in  the  pathway  I  tread; 

But  mayhap  to-night  I  shall  start. 

In  dreams,  down  those  hills  on  my  sled. 

If  so,  I  shall  wake  on  the  morn 

With  hope  and  with  courage  new-bom. 


395 


t 

inch.) 

brought, 

liuch. 


t  by  boys ; 

>ur  noise 
wn 


'^^"^^^^ 


396 


So  Have  I  Loved  You ! 


SO  HAVE  I  LOVED  YOU  ! 

ALONB  in  mWty,  with  grief  half  •obbii.g. 
oXB^d  with  fancies  my  hot  br.in  mobbrng. 

si  have  1  loved  you;  w  leave  you! 

December  dullness  is  now  encroaching. 
While  Death-s  fell  angel  is  fast  approachmg; 
Mv  life  and  autumn's  are  but  as  poaclinig 
O.    ^o«;^  -here  Winter  and  Death  are  coachmg- 
So  must  I  leave  you.  yet  love  you! 

I  send  no  tidings.  I'd  not  awake.. 
Forgotten  moments,  nor  have  you  ^h»^«" 
Witt  vain  remor«.  for  the  course  youWetaken^ 
Be  mine  the  pangs  that  bnt  Death  can  slaken 
So  have  I  loved  you,  and  love  you! 

By  sorrow  shadowed,  from  joy  long  parted. 
I  die  still  hoping,  yet  broken-hearted; 
I  oo  in  silence,  alone,  uncharted, 
A.id  lose  the  lil^>  t^at  for  you  -"  ""J**- 
You,  whom  T  worshipped  and  lived  for! 

Could  vou  but  send  me  a  slight  love-to^en 
?r^r?rom  mem'ry  your  last  -'ds  jkeu ; 
t  i-^_a  message;  your  silence  broken 
i^STet  Z:Zv  in  rny  grave-house  oaken- 
How  can  I  sleep,  you  still  ..lent? 

I  think,  or  dream  it.  there  will  come  healing 
A.  I  lie  dying.    When  light  is  steahng. 
^  Shadow's  creeping,  I'll  aee  vou  kneeling. 
Tn  laat  atonement  my  pale  lip«  -eal-R- 
May  I  but  know  it,  and  pardon  ! 


A  Little  Rosebud  Mouth. 


397 


:hing  — 


II  — 


A   LITTLE    ROSEBUD    MOUTH. 

A  I.ITTI.R  ronebud  mouth  ha»  May, 
A  lightsome  face,  a  flashing  eye ; 

Soft,  nut-brown  curU,  that  love  to  play 
With  every  wind  that  paaaeth  by. 

A  rippling  laugh  has  she,  a  tongue 

That  stern  commands  to  me  conveys;  — 

Its  praise  were  better  left  unsung. 

Since  my  fond  hopes  it  ruthless  slays. 

She  loves  me,  but  will  not  confess ; 

And  ah !  how  am  I  made  to  quail 
When  I  her  rosebud  mouth  would  press  — 

Her  saucy  tongue  begins  to  rail. 

I  love  her  so,  this  elfin  miss ; 

Her  little  mouth  perhaps  the  best ; 
Yet  must  I  steal  when  I  would  kiss. 

Must  come  as  robber,  not  as  gu<^8t. 


en; 
en  — 


Ah,  me !  those  kisses  are  so  sweet 
I  can  forgive  her  pouting  lips, 

I  can  forgive  the  words  that  greet 

Success,  although  they  sting  like  whips. 

A  little  rosebud  mouth  has  May ; 

A  saucy  tongue  to  keep  it  guard. 
But  she  shall  yet  my  love  repay ;  — 

May  naught  that  happy  hour  retard  I 


398 


The  Gipsy  Supper. 


THE  GIPSY  SUPPER. 

ONR  fine  day,  In  the  goldeti  October, 

When  the  equitiox  fierce  hml  blown  o  er, 

All  the  scholar,  with  basket*  assembled, 
To  the  numl)er  at  least  of  two  score. 

For  the  feast  that  was  given  twice-yearly, 

flu  areen  May  and  ere  autumn  severely 

^       Touched  U,e  leaves,  yet  had  ripened  the  beech-.mts) 
And  most  aptly  was  called  gipsy  »npper. 

'Twas  a  wonderful  place  for  a  picnic, 

A  wild  grove  by  the  forks  of  the  creek. 

Which  thenceforward  was  known  as  a  nver- 
One  which  campers  or  gipsies  mtght  seek. 

•Twas  a  spot  where  the  maddest  carousals 

Of  high  feasting  and  games  had  espousals, 

When  the  squirrels  and  such  folk  had  garnered 
All  the  nuts  that  were  left  by  the  schoolboys. 

There  were  swings  for  the  girls,  but  their  brothers 
Took  more  kindly  to  tending  the  fire, 

Which  scorched  eye-brows  and  trousers  while  brewmg 
Cans  of  tea  — that  no  one  could  admire. 

But  how  happy  the  boy  who,  in  fishing. 

Hooked  an  eel,  which  with  yell  he  sent  sw.shing 
Through  the  air,  to  stampede  some  old  lady. 
Who  from  May-day  till  frost  looked  for  serpents ! 

But  a  fire  always  proved  very  haudy 

To  dry  off  some  amphibious  boy. 
Who,  unless  he  was  soused  in  the  river 

And  then  steamed,  could  no  picnic  enjoy. 


The  Gipsy  Supper. 


39^ 


eech-iiul») 


rnered 

boys. 

ttbers 
:  brewing 


tiling 
lady, 
serpents ! 


If  Koofl  fishes  were  cnuKht  they  were  roaste'1, 
So  that  vian<l8  of  all  kinds  were  boasted  — 
Hut  no  famished  young  village  reporter 
Was  on  hand,  to  enlarge  in  his  Weekly. 

Rustic  games  that  are  known  in  the  country, 

With  their  innocent  frolic  and  mirth. 
Were  enjoyed,  till  there  came  a  loud  clamor 

That  all  present  should  judge  of  the  worth 
Of  the  marvelous  dainties,  appealing 
To  the  hungry,  that  they  should  be  kneeling 

On  the  grass  'round  the  white  table  covers. 

Ere  the  ants  and  the  spiders  forestalled  them. 

•Twas  the  cookery  that  ruled  in  the  'fifties, 

When  our  grandmothers  learned  how  to  bake ; 

But  the  delicate  foods  that  were  offered. 
Or  in  pastry,  confections,  or  cake. 

Would  have  tickled  an  appetite  jaded 

By  the  wares  now  on  picnickers  traded. 

By  the  sandwiches  served  at  our  "socials," 
Or  the  restaurant  products  of  henneries. 

There  were  sliced  meats,  so  juicy  and  tender, 
Roasted  pears,  to  be  eaten  with  cream  ; 

But  no  clams,  lemonade,  or  bananas, 

Or  cheap  oysters  — that  haunt  like  a  dream. 

All  could  praise,  without  seeming  officious, 

Mrs.  Strawberry's  short-cake  delicious, 

Apple  Urts,  that  straight  called  up  her  orchard, 
And  peach  pies,  that  would  stain  any  shirt-front. 

Then  the  smartest  boy  made  an  oration. 

While  some  urchin  or  miss  spoke  a  "piece," 

And  the  picnicking  season  was  over 

Till  Thanksgiving  Day  brought  the  snow's  fleece. 

No  regrets  with  our  pleasure  were  blended 

As  at  sunset  our  way  home  we  wended  ; 

But  we  laughed  at  some  boy's  buttered  coat-sleeves 
And  the  crUmbs  in  the  teacher's  scant  whiskers. 


40O 


The  ^Abandoned  Graveyard. 


THE  ABANDONED  GRAVEYARD. 

Far  ill  the  country's  peaceful  heart, 

Remote  from  hamlet  or  steam  road, 
Where  never  town  will  take  its  start. 

Or  aught  save  quiet  find  abode. 
There  is  a  spot,  so  lone,  so  calm, 

Forsaken  now.  yet  loved,  not  feared. 
As  Nature's  sweet  and  sacred  psalm, 

That  should  be  treasured  and  revered. 

This  burying-ground  neglected  lies, 

Save  by  some  faithful  ones,  drawn  there 
To  visit  graves  that  family  ties 

Endear.    Chance  visitors  are  rare. 
And  burials  few.    Ite  quiet  now 

Is  undisturbed,  and  will  be  so  — 
Unless  some  ruthless,  Vandal  plow 

Shall  come -until  the  last  trump  blow. 

It  crowns  a  gently  sloping  hill, 

From  which  is  seen  the  distant  lake- 
Too  distant  for  the  whistle  shrill 

Of  passing  steamer  to  awake 
A  faint,  far  echo;  sleep  profound 

Is  here,  with  none  to  speak  a  word 
Or  break  the  restful  c»lm;  no  sound, 

Except  from  some  far-calling  bird. 


The  tAbandotted  Graveyard. 

Yet,  in  the  spring-time,  cheerfully 

The  husbandman  will  sometimes  sing 
Old,  tuneful  hymns,  as  fearfully 

He  thinks  upon  the  Ules  that  cling 
To  all  lone  graveyards;  and  he  guides 

The  plow-share  'round  the  tott'ring  fence 
Full  steadily,  as  if  there  hides 

A  spirit  that  would  drive  him  thence. 

And  in  the  spring-time  robins  nest 

In  tall  fir-trees,  that  all  the  year 
Dense,  slumb'rous  shadows  throw,  and  rest 

In  peace  above  the  graves,  and  rear 
Their  fledglings,  singing  blithe  the  while. 

So  that,  at  this  glad  time,  the  thrill 
Of  life  is  known,  without  its  guile ; 

But  all  is  else  so  still  —  so  still. 


401 


Each  pleasant  eve  slow  cometh  one. 

With  snowy  beard  and  kingly  mien. 
To  watch  the  disappearing  sun 

Gild  all  the  skies,  till  dim  are  seen 
The  head-stones  in  the  dusk's  wan  light. 

Here  slumber  those  who  knew  his  love, 
And  whom  he  longs,  when  earthly  night 

Is  past,  to  join  in  realms  above. 

Here  would  I  rest,  when  life  is  done, 

No  costly  stone  to  mark  my  grave. 
Which  would  neglected  lie,  for  none 

Would  mourn  me  there ;  as  'neatb  the  wave 
I'd  sleep— as  peacefully  and  well; 

Here,  with  my  kindred,  who  were  known 
But  to  their  neighbors,  who  yet  tell 

Their  kindly  deeds,  in  years  long  flown. 


A  Trip  to  Washington. 


A  TRIP  TO  WASHINGTON. 

(NOT  A  HONEYMOOK  TRIP.) 

dock  i»  romtag  him  ap  at  an  "■■=«r°tl^Le  the  boat 

""rf?*i;U  .t.r«  .harp  a.  «ven,"  b.  said,  half-apologrti. 

cally,  •■  and  it  is  six  "»;<'■''  i„„^  ,„  eat  my 

But  he  magnanimously  allowed  me  ttn  nu 

-«-  •--  r  *L^:^^^U   S.  td  ZZ  the  dog 

immin«.t  risk  of  running  foul  »'  *e  d^  .^^W  not  pause 
„„  apparently  used  to  *at  «>"  f  ^^"«;Xw  fifteen  min- 
ten  minutes  on  that  account.        I  always  a.iow 

uTes  o«r-time."  he  said  after  -  •jf*  j^,,"*  „iSTe 
somebody  is  bound  for  to  bender  me.       1  said 


j4  Trip  to  Washington. 


403 


N. 


jouniey,  and, 
r  his  baggage 

the  mercy  of 

for  it.    The 
a  note  of  his 

cotton  string 
ting  dreams  to 

as  an  alarm- 
)ur. 

jefore  the  boat 
a  train,  that  I 
)h  is  in  so  far 

half-apologeti- 

lutes  to  eat  my 
ip.    It  was  his 
roused  the  dog 
window,  at  the 
itcher.     But  he 
id  did  not  pause 
How  fifteen  min- 
,t  off,  "because 
aid  I  wished  he 


had  told  me  sooner  about  allowing  a  fifteen  minutes'  leprieve, 
as  I  should  have  felt  justified  in  asking  for  something  more 
substantial  for  breakfast  than  a  raw  omelet  and  some  cold 
oatmeal. 

As  we  drove  along  the  wharf  (for  I  accompanied  him)  he 
uttered  an  emphatic  exclamation  of  disgust  on  seeing  a 
brother  expressman  drawn  up  alongside  the  steamer,  ahead 
of  him.  So,  it  was  evidently  his  ambition  to  get  down  lo 
the  boats  ahead  of  all  comers.  I  could  have  approved  of 
this  sort  of  thing  much  better  if  I  had  had  a  more  staying 
breakfast. 

But  at  last  I  was  on  board,  bag  and  baggage.  This  con- 
sisted of  a  square-sized  trunk  (capacity  250  cwt.,  tare  40 
lbs.),  that  had  always  proved  a  favorite  with  expres.smen 
and  railway  porters,  as  it  was  portable,  easy  to  get  a  good 
grip  on,  and,  on  account  of  its  square  shape,  would,  admit  of 
other  trunks  being  flung  on  top  of  it  without  danger  of  their 
rolling  oflF.  Besides  this  I  had  a  "  small  wheel-chair,"  as  I 
called  it,  and  an  invalid  tricycle.  The  si7.e  of  the  "small 
wheel-chair"  always  assumed  large  proportions  to  the  as- 
tonished porter,  when  he  nonchalantly  took  it  with  one  hand, 
only  to  brace  himself  and  grasp  hold  with  both  hands ;  while 
the  tricycle  was  42  inches  wide,  six  feet  long,  and  stood  four 
feet  high  in  its  stocking  feet.  As  the  classical  young  man 
fix)m  Smith  Crik  Bridge  observed  to  me,  I  had  a  "  not  incon- 
siderable quantity  of  impedimenta"  to  look  after;  and  I 
was  mean  enough  to  envy  the  old  lady  who  was  only  bur- 
dened with  an  occupied  parrot-cage,  a  pet  dog  in  a  blanket 
suit,  six  or  seven  venturesome  nephews  and  nieces  (mostly 
boys  and  tomboys),  scattered  about  the  upper  and  lower 
decks,  and  a  valise,  that  was  not  burglar-proof,  amidships. 

A  whole-souled  passenger,  who  seemed  to  have  no  baggage 
whatever  to  bother  about,  except  a  generous  load  of  stimu- 


A  Trip  to  Washington. 


404 

?SLtnr;l'iif  party  would  ,«ep  0.e  c»un»y 

is,  .ho  had  come  over  on  »  ^^'^  t^''^°:::S.teg. 

only  a  night's  stoiw.»et  at  Toronto.     He  n 

and  was  badly  in  need  of  oemg  ^  f^J^  *7<^,„,  „Mch 

ireS,^^r-rx-f?---t.^j 
rrj:o.r^.rx-re:^f^^^^^ 

c^„l  .0  keep  within  U.e  truth  in  my  ^-^^^  ^Z 
were  interrupted  by  a  feh  ^'^^  "^' "^^^^  re  wan- 
whom  I  had  forgotten ;  and  I  am  sony  to  say  t 
dered  straight  aw^ftom  the  b«^t.Mtm*^^^  ^^ 

he  said.     But  he  «'°«°^>'^^',,^' ^'  Zl^  oMinary  card- 

was »"!4««J.^.'7f;^f.:^e«omotting paper.  con.id«^ 
case.    To  be  brief,  it  iiras  a  '"«"  .    ^,^  ^j,  ^me 

abiy  -aller  than  a  .«i  fi^m.  '^^^''J^Z^  ,i,  .eie- 
in  two-mch  capitals,  his  House  an  ,...     jnggs.    He 

phone  number,  and  a  pointed  inumat^o^^^^^^ 

Ld schoolchildren  often  ^^^^^.^f  J^^^'^'^^Uy  know  a 
that  children  and  the  "-f^^^f  ^^^^^Tout  whati 
good  thing  when  they  see  it.  H^^^^^J  ^  •  j  ^^  that 
meant,  but  as  he  turned  to  go  ''^^V'^tlli^l  crzmta^ 
his  left  breast  pocket  hung  heavy,  and  that  it  was  era 
full  of  his  schoolchildren-allunng  cards. 


A  Trip  to  Washington. 


405 


y  interest  in 
ics,  claiming 
ark  of  mine, 
the  course  of 
artlessly  told 
ation ;  and  he 
nade,  and  in- 
p  the  country 

adelphia  tour- 
fa  allowed  him 
seen  nothing, 
re  was  a  blank, 
roronto,  which 
d  he  posted  his 
It  I  was  likely 
iderings,  I  was 
lation.    But  we 
5  knew  me,  but 
ly  that  he  wan-^ 
b  in  everything 
on  parting.    It 
le  ordinary  card- 
paper,  consider- 
t,  with  his  name 
address,  his  tele- 
lis  business.    He 
cards,  and  I  said 
generally  know  a 
make  out  what  I 
away,  I  saw  that 
t  it  was  crammed 


It  was  a  fast  boat,  and  soon  brought  us  all  to  Niagara, 
where  some  of  us  changed  from  boat  to  train.  The  interval 
was  not  a  long  one,  and  was  profitably  spent  in  listening  to 
a  telephone  conversation  between  a  customs  officer  and  a 
railway  man,  about  a  horse  deal  and  a  deferred  fishing  excur- 
sion.'   Their  language  was  good. 

The  run  from  Niagara  to  Buffalo  by  the  Michigan  Central 
was  a  remarkably  pleasant  one,  enjoyed  by  all  the  passen- 
gers except  one  nervous  old  gentleman,  who  insisted  that  we 
must  all  change  cars  before  we  could  possibly  get  into  Buf- 
falo.   The  fact  that  the  train  kept  right  on  and  that  the 
good-humored  conductor  gave  his  affidavit  that  it  was  all 
right  made  no  difference  to  the  old  gentleman,  and  it  was  all 
they  could  do  to  keep  him  from  getting  off  at  every  stopping- 
place.    At  Falls  View  all  the  passengers  but  this  excitable 
party  and  myself  seemed  to  get  off,  helter-skelter,  to  run 
down  the  sidewalk  and  gaze  at' the  Falls.    Suddenly  it  struck 
him  that  this  must  be  the  place  to  change  cars,  and  he  turned 
appealingly  to  me.     "No,"  I  said,  "  these  people  have  got 
off  to  see  the  Falls."— "  Fine  sight,"  he  said.     "  Is— is  it— 
the— Niagara  Falls?"— "Yes,"  I  told  him,  "I  expect  it 
is."_««Well,  well!"  he  ejaculated.     "I  never  saw  them 
tjefore ! " — I  believed  him.    I  also  believed  that  he,  too,  was 
from  Smith  Crik  Bridge,  and  that  in  his  guileless  innocence 
he  imagined  that  before  he  got  into  Buffalo  the  train  was 
likely  to  run  alongside  of  several  cataracts,  and  that  if  he 
should  travel  for  two  or  three  days,  he  would  run  across  no 
end  of  falls  like  Niagara.    But  I  felt  sorry  when  I  learned 
that  he  was  a  very  sick  man,  going  to  a  quack  doctor's  insti- 
tution in  Buffalo. 

It  was  a  long  wait  at  the  Erie  station,  from  12.15  tiU  5.30, 
so  I  went  about  a  little,  looking  at  the  trains  and  talking  to 
the  trainmen,  as  is  m^  wont.     I  knew  I  could  not  see  much 


A  Trip  to  Washington. 


406 

of  Buffalo:  and  so  did  not  t^J  '^^^^^^^Z^:! 
not  sensible,  but  it  was  re^HuL  J  ^^^  J„  ^,^,^  ^ive 
how  the  Erie  and  ^^^^  ?^^f^X  order  to  show  them, 
all  my  stuff,  although  I  ^^^^  aj""^"  ^^^  Lehigh  Valley 
and  so  made  haste  to  xntemew  th^m^  J  ^^  ^^^^  ^^^ 

baggageman.  I  ^^^^f  •  ^f  J^^  ^^ole  souled  railway  man  I 
and  I  found  him  to  be  Uie  mos  whol        ^^^^  ^^     ^^  ^^^ 

ever  ran  across,  and  the  «°«*  f  f  ^^^  ^e  that  he  had 
had  a  long  chat  together,  ''"j  f  ^"^^.  fo,  thirteen  years, 

been  on  the  road,  i»  f  P.'T^f^^^rt^^^^^^^^^  above  seven  or 
and  I  informed  him  that  I  had  never  t  ^^  ^^^ 

eight  hundred  miles  >njny  h  e^   ^faln  himself,  put  me  in  the 
this,  but  hel^d  -  ^-^^^^^^^^^  side  to'get  the  best 

through  car  for  P^*  f  *^P;*J^  ^^^  t  my  machine  and 
view  of  Portage  Falls;  »«d  *^"'^^!  ^^^  1  was  traveling 
Call  wheel-chair-  -^^ '"' '?„'  e'ager  to  talk  to  entire 
alone,  and.  as  he  must  have  -^  ^^er^  ,,„,  ,,ek  to  me 
strangers,  when  ^^PP^^^.^^^J^^^fo,  „ot  coming  down  m 
for  another  chat,  ^^^^^l^^f  ^^^ething  of  the  picturesque 
daylight,  so  that  r  could  ^^  ^"f.^J^ia."  you  won't  se« 

Lehigh  Valley  sc*nery^    ^^.^  they  climb  the  mountain;  1 
anything ;  you  won  t  ^^/^'l:    ^is^uie.    But  you  must 
win  be  dark  before  we  get  to  Ho^eUsv  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^ 

come  back  in  broad  dayhght.     ^  ,^  „„  ^ne  that  tt 

and  I  never  saw  ^^^J^^^J,:^\,,^.  „.e.  but  of  getting 
wasn't  a  question  of  seeing  scen«> 

r,  PbUaddphi.  in  "-* j'^'-^l^  „  ^  .„  sleep,  a,  I  did 

I  didn't  make  any  »I«°°' ,  .r,o\e^een,  even  if  H"" 

„ish  to  see  what  there  >°'8'"  *=. J^i^^^  But  at  .11  honrs 

:„,y  the  blank  no.h.ngne^  "f  ™d„sW  ^^  „„ 

of  the  "iSht,  "'^"""^'^'JX^'iSiMVpsesof  the 


A  Trip  to  Washington. 


407 


This  was 
doubts  as  to 
rould  receive 

show  them, 
ehigh  Valley 

to  deal  ^ith, 
ailway  man  I 
:o.  He  and  I 
:  that  he  had 
hirteen  years, 
ibove  seven  or 
lespise  me  for 

put  me  in  the 

0  get  the  best 
machine  and 

1  was  traveling 
talk  to  entire 

itne  back  to  me 
jming  down  in 
the  picturesque 
"you  won't  see 
le  mountain;  it 
But  you  must 
train  at  Elmiri, 
to  no  one  that  it 
e,  but  of  getting 

to  sleep,  as  I  did 
jn,  even  if  it  was 
But  at  all  hours 
,  passengers  were 
it  glimpses  of  the 
ia&  reflected  on  it, 


and  could  always  tell  when  we  were  crossing  a  bridge.  These 
things  Were  a  great  consolation  to  me — till  I  raised  the  win- 
dow to  get  the  midnight  air,  and  then  couldn't  get  it  down 
again.  However,  at  every  station  and  every  switch  I  could 
the  better  see  the  pretty  and  effective-looking  white  caps  of 
the  trainmen.  Once  I  accosted  a  switchman  with  the  intel- 
ligence that  it  was  a  fine  night.  He  looked  up  at  me  in 
evident  astonishment,  and  said,  rather  plaintively,  but  with 
the  characteristic  indifference  of  switchmen :  "It's  raining. ' ' 
When  we  got  fairly  down  into  the  coal  region,  the  .skies,  for 
miles,  seemed  all  ablaze.  It  was  the  reflection  from  the 
great  furnaces,  and  I  congratulated  myself  that  I  knew  it 
without  having  to  ask  the  conductor.  There  was  nothing 
to  mar  my  enjoyment  of  this  lonely  run  except  the  gurgling 
noise  from  a  tired  boy,  who  was  just  learning  how  to  snore. 
I  am  afraid  it  will  take  him  three  or  four  years  of  patient 
practice  to  get  the  art  of  snoring  down  fine,  but  in  another 
six  months  he  will  be  able  to  count  his  enemies,  if  he  travels 
much  by  night,  as  Samson  counted  his  slain  Philistines — 
by  thousands. 

Morning  came  when  the  sun  rose,  naturally.  It  was  rain- 
ing, surely  enough.  But  I  was  now  able  to  amuse  myself 
by  looking  at  the  toy  engines  and  cars,  as  I  styled  ,them,  of 
the  Lehigh  Valley  Co.  vSoon  two  young  men  appeared  in 
my  car,  from  another  car.  They  were  good-natured  young 
fellows,  and  very  talkative.  They  had  traveled  a  great  deal,' 
and  considerably  farther  this  trip  than  I  had,  and  were  also 
a  great  deal  hungrier  than  I  was.  We  took  the  Reading 
road  at  Bethlehem,  and  at  every  stopping-point  thereafter 
the  two  young  men  would  get  off,  with  the  determination  to 
get  something  to  eat.  But  they  would  barely  get  on  the 
station  platform  when  the  train  was  off  again,  and  they 
would  come  back,  hungrier  than  ever,  but  always  good- 


-g  A  Trip  to  H''ashittgton. 

A      "Tt  seems  funny."  said  one  of  them,  "  to  get 

xo  give  ui  t,<.  was  a  New  Jersey  farmer,  as  i  naa 

and  finding  out  that  he  was  a  «ew  •»       -^  ^^^  ^is- 

armed  ^*";  "J^'X'    ."..^^  the  mosquitoes  are  as  bad  over 

r:l  •"  ?J»'TSit::U,  «  :  found  .e  could  ....  a 

good  d«l  more  senribly  ">""  \~f  ^„„  ;„,„  «,«  station  at 

.;''  'd*S,:e':7.^randTbr"h»Hgbt»t  doubt  that 

s  rut^TunT-  f  r^tS":.*"  '-^r.^' 

*'  rain  -P^^, ^ *  »  '  r  «C-«  ovetU- 

ntr.rd^n:rt.o,ta,»a,tPb^«;.  .»..-- 

«op  a  stteet^ar  and  an  ommbus  to  ^*^  » 
eroU  tborougbfe.  "^^  •^^' t"ig^"!w.  drift 
,U„g  »»"«»  *^;  '^tS^  a  cUcn^AK  of  a  country 
back  to  a  bright  June  day.  woe  directly  over  a  cross- 

village  stopped  bis  "f^,  ""^^^  ^Sng  my  way. 
road,  on  seeing  °>=  ^*  ^^^J  l  gamine  a  dilapi- 

■""l^Tr  He taSf  st"^  to  i«pre«  me  with  his 
dated  bridge.  He  ^^^^^^ .  **7*^^,  ,,^  r._  stalked  leisurely 
authority.    I  waited  a  mmute,  while  he  staiKe 


A  Trip  to  IVashington. 


409 


em,  "to  get 
"  I  thought 
into  the  great 

ilderly  man  in 
wn  beside  me 
oon  be  there ; 
rmer,  as  I  had 
ness  that  dis- 
tive  mosquito, 
re  as  bad  over 
aake  them  out 
P.  &  R.  coal 
t  seen  any  this 
le  could  talk  a 

3  the  station  at 
itest  doubt  that 

Ths  imposing 
ether  with  the 
time.  At  last 
ckened  up  till  I 

all  over  again. 
Iphia  policemen 
le  me  to  cross  a 
hough  the  same 
bits  always  drift 
IAN  of  a  country 
:tly  over  a  cross- 
arring  my  way. 
xamine  a  dilapi- 
:ess  me  with  his 
stalked  leisurely 


about,  then  said,  "  Would  you  kindly  drive  the  horse  forward 
a  little,  so  that  I  may  pass. ' '  The  coUNCitMAN  did  nothing, 
but  a  man  who  chanced  along  promptly  lead  the  horse  out 
of  the  highway,  while  the  aggrieved  councilman  muttered, 
"If  time  is  precious  to  yoyx." —  "U what f"  I  asked  flip- 
pantly, and  he  repeated  his  remark,  when  I  replied,  "I 
must  get  past,  that's  all."  Yes,  that  was  all ;  but  I  have 
always  wondered  which  of  us  enjoyed  that  scene  most,  he,  in 
stopping  me,  or  I,  in  being  stopped. 

The  next  day  I  went  down  to  the  Broad-street  station,  to 
get  oflF  to  Bryn  Mawr.     Here  the  "special  messenger"  of 
the  Pennsylvania  fixed  things  for  me,  and  I  had  no  trouble. 
The  return  fare  is  fifty-one  cents.     "This  is  one  dollar," 
said  the  special  messenger,  as  I  handed  him  a  bill.     Then 
he  brought  me  ray  ticket,  with  the  watch-word:    "Count 
your  change.     Come  this  way."     And  he  saw  me  safe  up 
the  baggage  elevator,  on  my  machine,  and  pointed  out  the 
Bryn  Mawr  accommodation,  when  he  disappeared,  like  a 
flash,  to  waylay  some  other  troubled  traveller.     The  ten- 
mile  run  over  the   Pennsylvania's  perfect    road-bed    was 
all  too  short.     But  it  looked  like  more  rain,  and  I  got  off 
the  train  and  hurried  away.     I  was  afraid  I  might  not  find 
the  humorist  at  home,  after  all.     But  the  quick  step  and  the 
genial,  "  How  are  you,  Bruce  !  "  re-assured  me,  for  I  knew 
it  was  the  humorist  himself. 


I  had  to  wait  on  the  platform  at  Bryn  Mawr  about  ten 
minutes,  when  I  could  get  back  on  the  same  train  I  had 
come  out  on.  I  had  told  the  conductor  I  should  "lay  for  " 
him  again,  and  he  had  smiled  feebly,  whether  at  the  slip- 
shod slang  or  at  the  unparalleled  compliment  thus  paid  him, 
I  don't  know.     While  waiting,  the  magnificent  "Pennsyl- 


A  7rit>  to  iyashhigton. 
410  ^   "  f 

•  ,-  -..A  ••  flnshed  past,  and  a  thrill  of  enthusiasm  shot 
vanrn  hm,ted  A"  J^^s^'  stopped  since  she  left  Harr.s- 
TT'  Tcried  fnd  a  by'stanrr  looked  at  n,e  pityingly 
^"?  -1  'Oh  'ves  she  has !  "  -  "  Isn't  that  the  Limited, 
and  said  OJ;^^I•;llld  of  a  train-hand,  and  he  cor- 
'T  ITme  "BuUt  will  have  stopped  at  Lancaster  - 
roborated  me         BUi  1  divisions."   said   the 

^"n'    d"  and  th     b^stand^  turned    huffishly   away, 
train-haiid ;    and  the   by  ^^^  ^^^^.^^^  ^^^^^^^  ^^ 

outraged  that  a  total  siraug  ^^^^^^ 

•-""*■  tr.na  X*X  tilet  aXuevea  .a  of  .U 

came  to  the  long  luuu  .   however.     But  he  was 

■-r:ssro.-sr:.:'r'™.  -  ... 


A  Trip  to  [Vasbiuf^ton. 


411 


ithusiasm  shot 
le  left  Harris- 
t  me  pityingly 
it  the  Limited, 
I,  and  he  cor- 
at  Lancaster," 
5ns,"   said  the 
luffishly   away, 
on  platform  at 
)W)  more  about 
Philadelphian. 

d-street  station, 
;ial  messenger" 
elieved  me  of  all 
runk  were  to  go, 
down  in  time  — 
3  train,  with  my 
*he  conductor  on 
hted  up  when  we 
)re.    I  don't  sup- 
ver.     But  he  was 
t  last  the  Capitol 
5walk  glimpses  of 
to  the  B.  &  P.  de- 
This  noble  m&u 

g  the  way,  for  the 
-the  more  so,  as  I 
ay.  "Better  keep 
't  like  it,"  advised 
io.  But  what  ave- 
i!    Washington  is 


famous  for  its  magnificent  thoroughfares  and  its  perfect  pave- 
ments. Away  up  Capitol  Hill  I  went,  to  B  Street  South- 
east, where  I  got  good  accommodation.  This  was  not  .no 
much  due  to  newspaper  advertisements  as  to  an  alert  and 
yet  thoroughly  obliging  boy,  who  directed  me  to  such  good 
purpose  that  I  found  lodgings  with  his  parents.  I  felt  at 
home  with  them  at  once,  and  was  never  made  more  comfort- 
able in  my  life.  Lest  I  should  forget  it,  I  will  pause  here  to 
speak  a  good  word  for  the  frank  and  courteous  citizens  of 
the  American  capital,  whose  democratic  simplicity  is  a  real- 
ity, not  a  sham. 

The  next  day  I  went  into  Virginia  —  at  least,  I  went  down 
through  Georgetown  and  crossed  the  Potomac  bridge.  I 
anticipated  seeing  negro  women  carrying  baskets  on  their 
heads,  and  I  was  not  disappointed.  Perhaps  I  might  have 
been  disappointed  any  other  day.  And  I  also  saw  the  ven- 
erable old  negro  of  tradition,  driving  a  steer  tackled  to  an 
equally  venerable  cart,  that  was  six  feet  wide.  I  will  say  it 
was  six  feet,  but  I  could  just  as  easily  say  it  was  seven,  and 
not  grieve  my  conscience  a  bit.  I  was  looking  for  this  old 
negro— and  he  must  have  been  looking  for  me,  for  he  said 
good  day  to  me  and  looked  pleased  to  see  me. 

Just  after  crossing  the  bridge  a  small  boy  came  up  to  me 
and  said,  mysteriously  :  "  Mister,  you  ain't  allowed  to  goon 
this  sidewalk.  Kin  you  give  me  a  cent  ?  "  I  said,  "  I  have 
nothing  but  a  bill ;  you  wouldn't  want  that,  would  you  ?  " 
Then  he  took  the  road,  and  I  kept  the  sidewalk.  George- 
town is  a  quiet  place,  and  most  of  the  inhabitants  are  con- 
tent to  claim  a  population  of  only  20,000.  It  is,  like  Wash- 
ington, under  District  Government.  The  old  Chesapeake  and 
Ohio  Canal,  unlike  the  old  negro,  had  got  tired  of  waiting  for 
me,  and  had  temporarily  given  up  the  ghost. 

I  lost  no  time  in  seeing  the  editor.     He  was  not  so  formid- 


/I  Trip  to  Washington. 
-ft«r  all      In  fact,  I  thought  his  cigar 
^' ^e^dlTeTugge  'v   of  dan  "r  tL«  he  di.. ;  and  I  an.  glad 
r       iLTnocaut  to  be  afraid  of  him -and.  of  course,  he 

Tdi-^  acknowlX  whether  he  was  afraid  of  me.  or  not. 
wouldn  t  aclcnowieuKc  >»  Pennsvlvan  a-avenue 

:r"hI"Cw  of  .he  monumen.,  and  .ook  a  good  long  looW 

"ihctn'ream  of  vUi.or,  « enonnou,.  They  aeeevery- 
.  J  IrtlbTause  everything  U  free,  and  partly  because 
r/n,«"givfarU6.Jry  account  of  the  city  »hen  they 
they  ""»' g"  ^„h;_.to„  has  public  squares  and  little 
„tum  l'°""*'"7X«  there  are  always  fountains,  and 

re^rarirsts/^raterisusuajly -^-w^^^^^ 

always  able  to  sing  *'''  "W  ^",f  ^  f„„„i  „„y„here,  it  is 
.  "  Thrar&p-nt^-«of  all  lta.es  and  .11 
bere ;  ^^'"J?^:^  .„  .J  good-natured,  and  proud  of  the 
raScity,1n*:ot  a  bit  r^.less  under  .he  n.ild  rule  of 

;i:;7J'"Thr".t:s':.  p.^ud  of  .h^r  i„sti.u.ous. 


A  Trip  to  U^a.-ihington. 


413 


jht  his  cigar 
and  I  am  glad 
,  of  course,  he 
of  me,  or  not. 
Ivania-avenue 
The  gleaming 
n  from  almost 
on  the  memory 
ipecially  when 
le  broken  walk 
good  long  look 

They  see  every- 
partly  because 
:ity  when  they 
lares  and  little 
s  fountains,  and 
hydrant  water," 
;roes  are  always 
d  the  locusts  are 

anywhere,  it  is 
all  States  and  all 
and  proud  of  the 
the  mild  rule  of 

eht  —  and  all  offi- 
;  pride  in  showing 
buildings,  and  are 
d  opinion  of  the 
»  me,  many  times  : 
;s  the  city,  in  spite 
their  institutions, 


and  Uncle  Sam's  Government  is  extremely  popular.  They 
have  no  mayor  or  aldenuen  to  vote  for,  and  no  vote  at  Presi- 
dential elections.  Consequently  there  is  t>o  pandering  to 
voters,  and  the  citizens  have  their  time  to  devote  to  their 
business.  All  the  same,  the  keer?i.t  interest  is  felt  in  Presi- 
dential contests.  But  here  is  manifestly  a  system  that 
would  not  suit  some  ambitious  cities,  whose  citizens  would 
relapse  into  barbarism,  if  it  were  not  for  their  annual  alder- 
manic  elections. 

The  White  House  and  grounds  are  always  open  to  the 
public,  and  I  frequently  turned  in  at  the  great  gates  on  Penn- 
sylvania-avenue, which  stand  wide  open.  There  is  one 
notice  only,  over  the  driving  stables,  which  reads  "  Private 
Entrance."  Otherwise,  some  eager  visitor  from  Coal  Oil 
Junction  might  be  determined  to  find  out  how  the  horses  are 
shod,  and  so  get  his  wisdom  teeth  knocked  where  they  would 
be  safest  —  down  his  throat. 

It  was  no  joke  for  me  to  climb  the  steep  grade  of  Capitol 
Hill,  but  there  was  always  some  one  to  give  me  a  push  up  it. 
I  usually  halted  by  the  imposing  Garfield  monument  —  not 
to  look  out  for  possible  assistance,  but  to  admire  the  monu- 
ment. At  least,  I  am  sure  it  always  had  that  appearance. 
A  ragged  little  urchin  told  me,  the  first  day,  the  significance 
of  the  allegorical  figures  at  the  base  of  the  monument,  its 
cost,  and  other  particulars.  In  Washington  even  the  street 
urchin  reads  the  newspapers  he  sells,  and  has  a  sense  of  gen- 
uine patriotism.  One  day  I  encountered,  midway  up  the 
grade,  a  spick  and  span  little  buggy,  drawn  by  a  team  of  well- 
trained  goats.  I  have  seen  goat  teams  before,  but  I  never 
saw  clean  and  civilized-looking  goats  before.  Everybody 
admired  the  turnout,  especially  a  Maryland  farmer  (all  the 
same,  he  may  have  been  a  Government  employ^),  who 
halted,  and  observed  to  me,  '  'Isn'  t  that  a  dahling  team  ! "     I 


414 


A  Trip  to  H^asbitigton. 


expect  he  halted  because  he  reflected  that  it  was  not  every  day 
he  could  enjoy  the  spectacle  of  such  a  team  as  the  boy's,  and 
such  a  rig  as  mine.  But  I  reflected  that'  the  Canadian 
farmer  has  not  yet  been  born  (though  one  could  wish  other- 
wise) who  would  cheerfully  use  such  an  expression  as,  "Isn't 
that  a  dahling  team  !  " 

My  first  day  out  I  went  down  to  the  navy  yard,  where  the 
young  marines  kindly  insisted  on  showing  me  everything. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  wasn't  much  for  me  to  .see,  except  a 
big  gun,  nearly  completed.  I  always  liked  to  see  the  ma- 
rines on  the  street,  in  their  smart  attire,  and  with  their  care- 
less, jaunty  air.  They  always  looked  to  be  in  fighting  trim, 
too.  But  orce  I  got  badly  fooled.  Seeing  a  negro  in  what 
seemed  to  be  a  negligi  sailor  costume,  I  asked  him  if  he  was 
a  U.  S.  marine.  He  grinned  all  over,  and  said  :  "  No,  sah  ; 
but  I  am  often  mistaken  for  one.  I  don't  wear  no  coat,  but 
these  heah  shirts  are  made  to  ordah."  —  "  They  cost  you  a 
doUah  and  a  half  apiece,  don't  they,  Jim?"  suggested  a 
companion  of  his. — "Three  dollahs  a  pair,"  corrected  Jim, 
with  a  bland  smile. — On  my  way  back  from  the  navy  yard, 
I  paused  to  rest  iinder  a  grocery  awning,  and  overheard  the 
grocer  and  an  idler  discussing  the  Bering  Sea  troubles!  For 
the  sake  of  springing  a  feeble  joke  on  them,  I  listened  atten- 
tively, occasionally  putting  in  my  oar.  When  the  question 
was  thoroughly  discussed,  they  became  the  more  interested  in 
me,  and  I  said,  as  I  turned  to  go,  "  I  am  a  Canadian,  and  I 
have  just  been  down  inspecting  your  navy  yard."  I  had 
expected  to  see  a  look  of  surprise  steal  over  their  faces.  I 
saw  a  good  deal  more,  but  kept  right  on,  without  pausing  to 
guess  exactly  what  their  looks  indicated. 

Sunday  in  Washington  I  spent  indoors,  on  account  of  a 
broken  tire.  I  did  enjoy  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the 
church-goers  and  passers-by.    Street-cars  going  all  day  long, 


A  Trip  to  Washington. 


415 


lot  every  day 
le  boy's,  and 
he  Canadian 
d  wish  other- 


ion  as, 


'Isn't 


ird,  where  the 
e  everything. 
>  see,  except  a 
to  see  the  ma- 
ith  their  care- 
fighting  trim, 
negro  in  what 
him  if  he  was 
d:  "No,  sah  ; 
ar  no  coat,  but 
liey  cost  you  a 
'"  suggested  a 
corrected  Jim, 
the  navy  yard, 
I  overheard  the 
,  troubles'.     For 
[  listened  atten- 
en  the  qiiestion 
ore  interested  in 
Canadian,  and  I 
r  yard."     I  had 
r  their  faces.    I 
thout  pausing  to 

on  account  of  a 
le  window  at  the 
Ding  all  day  long, 


and  boys  boarding  them  to  sell  the  papers.  Apparently, 
these  boys  would  sometimes  innocently  accost  a  clergyman. 
The  negro  church-goers,  from  my  locality,  had  a  prosperous 
look.  The  only  pathetic  sight  I  saw  on  this  Sunday  was  a 
little  boy  of  eight  or  nine  years,  with  his  hair  hanging  down 
his  back  in  long,  straggling  curls,  and  with  a  bright  red 
sash  about  his  wai.st.  I  had  noticed  the  same  boy  on 
Saturday,  when  his  hair  was  braided  and  negligently  hair- 
pinned  to  his  crown  ;  and  then,  as  now,  he  bravely  ignored 
the  whispered  jests  of  other  boys,  whose  parents  had  them 
patronize  the  aesthetic  Washington  barbers.  It  was  a 
spectacle  to  bring  tears  to  one's  eyes  — a  cheap  edition  of 
the  little  lord. 

"Which  way  are  you  going  now?"  cried  out  a  friendly 
voice  to  me,  and  I  recognized  a  gentleman  of  whom  I  had 
previously  made  inquiries.  I  replied  that  I  thought  of  going 
down  into  Alexandria.  "Oh,  don't  take  such  a  trip  as 
that,  where  there  is  nothing  you  would  care  to  see.  Go 
along  New  Hampshire-avenue,  and  take  a  look  at  the 
extravagant  mansions  there.  It  is  the  most  aristocratic  part 
of  Washirgton."  Presently  I  concluded  to  do  so,  getting  a 
wayfarer  to  point  out  to  me  Secretary  Blaine's  house,  and  the 
building  occupied  by  the  Chinese  legation.  I  also  had  the 
good  fortune  to  see  the  Japanese  minister  and  his  suite  ;  and 
I  smiled  to  think  how  prone  we  are  to  judge  foreigners  by  the 
worst  representatives  of  their  nationality,  instead  of  by  the 
best.  What  nation  would  like  to  be  judged  by  its  fugitive 
and  outcast  classes  ? 

I  wandered  about  the  Botanical  Gardens  (very  often  in 
quest  of  a  drink  of  cold  water),  and  spent  a  good  deal  of 
time  at  the  Smithsonian  Institute.  "Are  you  from  French 
Canada,  or  English  Canada?"  asked  a  kindly  old  guard,  to 


4t6 


j4  Trip  to  Washington. 


whom  I  had  revealed  my  nationality,  thus  demonstrating  to 
me  that  he  knew  all  about  my  country. 

When  Friday  came  around  again,  it  occurred  to  me  that 
I  was  getting  homesick ;  so  I  put  a  new  label  on  the  trunk, 
and  went  down  to  the  ticket  oflSce.  If  I  had  got  up  fifteen 
minutes  earlier,  I  could  have  "patronized"  the  Northern 
Central,  the  direct  route  to  Suspension  Bridge;  but,  as  it 
was,  I  decided  to  inflict  myself  upon  the  B.  &  O.  people  to 
Philadelphia,  and  thence  home  as  I  had  come.  It  was  only 
fair  play  to  give  all  the  railroads  a  show,  anyway.  The 
scalpers  had  nothing  up  my  way,  but  they  expressed  their 
regret,  and  never  once  intimated  that  they  took  me  for  a 
boodler,  fleeing  to  Canada.  I  have  no  reason  to  suppose 
they  did. 

It  was  a  magnificent  train  that  pulled  out  from  the  foot  of 
Capitol  Hill  at  4.20  p.  m.,  and  we  ran  to  Baltimore  without 
a  halt.  But  shortly  after  leaving  Baltimore  the  engine 
broke  down,  and  we  were  detained  more  than  au  hour. 
Other  trains  were  flagged,  of  course,  but  there  was  an 
element  of  danger  in  the  situation  that  made  the  waiting 
time  quite  interesting.  The  passengers  got  ofi"  the  train  in 
large  numbers,  and  then  would  pound  vigorously  on  the 
vestibuled  doors  for  admittance — to  the  great  annoyance  of 
the  trainmen.  One  young  man  climbed  down  the  steep  em- 
bankment we  were  on,  and  gathered  a  handful  of  mayweed. 
With  this  he  returned  to  the  train,  crying,  "Marguerites, 
marguerites,  only  fi'  cent  a  bunch."  But  even  this  failed 
to  rouse  one  indifferent  passenger,  who  showed  his  contempt 
for  railway  accidents  by  falling  asleep  in  his  seat.  At  last 
the  engine  was  in  a  fit  condition  to  back  the  train  up  to  a 
siding,  where  another  engfine  was  in  waiting,  arid  we  were 
off  again.  The  conductor  agreed  to  telegraph  ahead  to  find 
out  whether  the  Buffalo  train  could  be  held.     This  was 


A  Trip  to  Washington. 


417 


nstrating  to 

to  me  that 
1  the  trunk, 
3t  up  fifteen 
be  Northern 
:;  but,  as  it 
O.  people  to 

It  was  only 
lyway.  The 
pressed  their 
)ok  me  for  a 
a  to  suppose 

jm  the  foot  of 
more  without 
e  the  engine 
lan  au  hour, 
there  was  an 
ie  the  waiting 
ff  the  train  in 
»rously  on  the 
:  annoyance  of 
\  the  steep  em- 
il  of  mayweed. 
"Marguerites, 
ven  this  failed 
;d  his  contempt 
seat.     At  last 
;  train  up  to  a 
g,  arid  we  were 
)h  ahead  to  find 
leld.    This  was 


Pi 


doubtful ;  and  I  journeyed  on  through  the  rain  (for  it 
naturally  began  to  rain  as  we  drew  near  Philadelphia)  with 
the  prospect  of  a  "  lay  over ' '  of  twelve  hours  in  the  Quaker 
City. 

We  got  in  an  hour  and  twenty  minutes  late.  Immediately 
a  man  boarded  my  car,  saying,  in  an  audible  voice  :  ' '  Pass- 
engers via  Lehigh  Valley  will  please  change  cars,  as  there  is 
no  through  connection  to-night ; ' '  and  I  knew  the  ' '  lay  over ' ' 
was  inevitable.  So  I  entrusted  him  with  the  secret  that  I 
had  a  machine  on  board,  and  he  kindly  set  about  getting  me 
off.  In  a  short  time  he,  the  conductor,  the  train  porter,  the 
brakeman,  a  policeman,  and  the  big,  good-natured  station 
master  had  me  aboard  my  machine,  and  I  was  glad,  because 
I  knew  that  some  one  of  them  would  be  able  to  tell  me  where 
I  could  get  something  to  eat.  However,  I  spent  some  little 
time  perusing  the  inscriptions  on  the  trains,  while  good- 
natured  Charley  Selby,  the  colored  station  porter,  went  out 
and  got  me  a  substantial  supper,  as  the  station  restaurant 
was  then  closed. 

Early  next  morning  I  went  up  to  Wayne  Junction,  from 
the  B.  &  O.  station,  and  had  another  wait,  of  nearly  two 
hours.  Of  course  it  was  raining.  There  are  trains  passing 
here  till  you  can't  rest ;  and  the  gigantic,  odd-built  engines 
of  the  Reading  company  are  a  treat  to  look  at.  I  wasn't  yet 
wearied  when  the  baggageman  called  tome,  "Bethlehem 
train,  sir !  Come  this  way  !  "  And  I  was  off,  on  the  morn- 
ing t'ain,  with  the  opportunity  of  seeing  some  of  the  finest 
scenery  in  the  world,  in  spite  of  fate.  I  declined  the  train- 
boy's  exciting  romances,  and  even  felt  no  interest  in  looking 
up  the  daily  railroad  accidents  in  the  newspapers,  because 
I  knew  I  could  at  least  get  an  itnsatisfactor>'  glimpse  of  Solo- 
mon's Gap,  Mauch  Chunk,  the  valley  of  the  Wyoming,  and 
the  winding  Lehigh. 


^  Trip  to  Washington. 


418 

A  voung  man  had  kindly  given  up  his  seat  to  me  but  I 
.at  nC  Jmfo.ta.y  ^^U^d  io.  so  lon^^ 

lehem  the  -^^^I^^Thf  smS^^^  <>£  the  parlor 

kindly  put  me  mto  the  ^'^^^f  "^  ^  J  ^^^  ^^^  „ever  more 
car.     Here  there  -'^^^ ^^Jl^fZZ^^y r.ot^n.^.o ra.r 

than  four  in  at  <>-^>^^^'^J^'''  l'^  the  rest  of  the  way  I 
one's  enjoyment  of  the  journey.  ^^^^ 

looked  out  of  the  window,  and  I  am  su^e  I  s  ^  _^  ^^^^^  ^^^ 
tnost  people  on  that  tram  .^^^'^  J^^jd  „gs  at  Mauch 
not  more  than  seventeen  ^^'S^  ^ettoe  •'  I  am  sorry  to 
Chunk.  I  shall  be  able  to  see  Bomet^^«g^  i 
say  that  there  must  ^^ve  b^  ^^^^^^^^^  ^.t  off  the'view. 
tered  about  in  the  most  f  "'^^^^'"^.'^Y^^  Central  tracks. 

But  it  ^^o^f}-^;:2t::::^t^^      ^u  the 

we  P^^yf  ^\^^  tba'e  Tntir  was  .musing  to  watch  their 
way  up  t°  W^^f  ^^;' J,  we  had  climbed  the  mountam. 

rLr^^-"^^on.some.^f^^^ 

^r^;trrxr:rt.tisituationisde- 

lightfuUy  romantic-  .omn-rtment  was  entered  by 

At  Wilkesbarre  the  smokmg  <=o™P;^!^;";  ^  .^,^  „oble- 
a  distinguished  party,  in  the  Pe^-"jfXf^„own  more 
„.en.  from  the  B^-k  ^ountr^^  wl^  ^^^.^  ^^^„ 

about  the  topography  of  Egypt  ana  ^^  ^^ 

^ost  of  us  will  ever  wish  to  know^"^^^^^^^^  ^        ^^^,  ,,,, 
the  moment  they  had  crossed  the  AUanUc  y  ^^ 

..  doing  "  the  mines,  and  now  on  their  waj  to    J  ^^^^^^^^ 
flew  past  ten  or  twelve  ^t^tions  before  J^^^^^^^^^  ^^^^^^ 

wUh  any  one  but  them^Wes  ;  but  th«r  res^  ^^^^^ 

at  last,  and  all  the  rest  m  ^^^^^  plainsman. 


t/l  Trip  to  Washington. 


419 


,  me,  but  I 
id  at  Beth- 
:nd  of  them) 
f  the  parlor 

never  more 
ithing  to  mar 
of  the  way  I 
y  more  than 
"if  there  are 
igs  at  Mauch 

am  sorry  to 
lundred,  seat- 
off  the  view, 
entral  tracks, 
ailroad  all  the 
0  watch  their 
;he  mountain, 
;he  passengers 
\  is  scarcely  an 
ituationis  de- 
was  entered  by 
English  noble- 
e  known  more 
ler  India  than 
were  all  at  sea 
They  were  over 
o  Niagara.   We 
would  converse 
:rve  was  broken 
f  proved  genial 
stem  plainsman, 
from  one  source 


and  another,  on  that  trip,  because  no  absurd  fear  of  display- 
ing their  ignorance  restrained  them  from  asking  pertinent 
questions  ;  and  in  all  cases  of  doubt,  appeal  was  made  to  the 
puUman  conductor  for  corroboration  or  disproof.  "Oh," 
said  one  of  them,  as  we  were  running  from  Sayre,  Pa.,  to 
Waverly,  N.  Y.,  (a  distance  of  two  miles),  "Oh,  there  is 
New  York  City  and  New  York  State !"  Yet  no  one  could 
laugh  at  such  remarks,  because  they  were  made  so  artlessly. 
Said  another,  "  When  it  is  five  o'clock  with  you,  it  is  ten 
o'clock  in  England."  —  "  Yes  ;  and  only  two  o'clock  on  the 
Pacific  coast."  They  were  so  much  impressed  with  the 
vastness  of  the  country,  just  from  one  day's  ride,  that  they 
were  advised  to  take  a  six  days'  journey  across  the  conti- 
nent. Such  practical  suggestions  as  these  give  foreigners  at 
least  a  vague  notion  of  our  country. 

There  was  a  giant  on  our  train,  who  got  off  at  Homells- 
ville  for  his  supper,  and  frightened  the  depot  policeman  into 
a  burst  of  unprofessional  laughter.  The  giant  stood  seven 
feet  high,  and  was  perfectly  proportioned  ;  and  the  blinds  of 
the  dining-hall  had  to  be  lowered  to  keep  the  vulgar  eye 
from  spoiling  the  giant's  appetite. 

There  was  a  lively  American  from  Newark  in  the  smoking 
compartment,  who  was  determined  that  the  English  lords 
should  see  everything  and  be  posted  in  everything.  He  got 
them  out  on  the  platform  when  the  train  slowed  ever  Portage 
bridge,  where  they  amused  all  the  passengers  by  one  of  them 
jocosely  asking  for  his  friend's  accident  insurance  policy. 
This  refreshing  witticism,  coming  from  an  Englishman,  was 
the  funniest  incident  of  the  trip.  The  storj'  told  by  the 
American  gentleman  about  the  Switch  Tiack  was  the  best 
story  ;  but  probably  it  is  well  known.  The  English  noble- 
men, however,  paid  most  attention  to  his  instructions  to 
them  how  to  find  Main-street,  Buffa'io,  from  the  Erie  depot. 


^  Trip  to  Washington. 


420 

♦«  crpt  ft  bracine  drink  of  some- 

„„„di„gs  that  »e  got  '^h-'t  '^•^'"« '*'^  "r  I  »as  alone 
Cantilever  did  not  Aow  up  to  e->od  '^T ^«J^  ,^,  j„„„gi 

at  .Ms  time,  and  had  an  ^°^^';^^tn.pWed  at  Niagara 
conductor  of  the  Lehigh.  H>'.™''7~  ^J^^  he  kindly 
Falls  station,  on  *;.C-»''«Xtrs  ,t  unusually  ex- 
brought  me  my  ™*'"',;^  ^X'lTnquired  the  days  on 
press  regret  on  parting  «■*  me  "Ut^JJ^q 

^hich  this  K"«l^™"  »='=:' *u^"i™  I  revisit  Washing- 
and  proposed  to  come  do»nv,..htam^i^j^^^        ^  ^^,_, 

ton  -  and  he  heard  me  '•■"Ugh  wrtn  ,_^  ^^^  ^ 

not  but  admire  such  courage.    And  «.  «y  ^^^_^^  ^^^ 

^''""""'TSiTbut  Lw  n^Ung  of  him.    I  neg- 
Si::C.r«rS.trai„shema.esJ.is-^^ 

r;rin%r— -- -^^'»  -  "-^°' 

course.  '    ,  ,r     i^  ^as  midnight)  with 

I  got  off  a  few  ^"-^7^J^^'^,^i^^^^^^  and  was  in- 

the  customs  officer  and  the  sta^°»^  ^^^^  ^,  ,^, 

formed  that  I  could  have  a  cnoi  ^^^^^ 

Bridge  or  at  Hamilton  as  the  ^^"^'^     ^^^^^^  ,^  Toronto, 
^asbutone train,  intheevemn^^^^^^^^ 
Another  "lay  over '   this  tj«e  01  ^  ^^^^^ 

before  me.     All  this  was  ^"nb^^^^l^  to  ^^^^  ^  ^^^^  ^,^^^, 
.       engine  on  the  picturesque  B.  &  ».  J^  „^,        .^ntee  to 

Jdsgave  me  to  understand  they    -^^^ 
„,„  on  their  own  time,     ^s  for  the  de    y       ^  ^^^^^^  ^^  ^^ 
getting  from  the  Bn^ge  to  To^  o  tb  ^elatedtrav- 

ronto  and  Montreal  philanthropists,  10 


t/l  Trip  to  IVashington. 


431 


k  of  some- 
rht  glimpse 

ills  and  sur- 
Even  the 

1  was  alone       ' 
the  through 

i  at  Niagara 
e  he  kindly 

usually  ex- 
the  days  on 
astern,  trips, 
jsitWashing- 
ing.     I  could 
ed,  in  the  ex- 
my  friend  the 
him.    I  neg- 
runs ;  but  am 
tad  he  been  on 

me  away,  of 

nidnight)  with 
n,  and  was  in- 
ing  over  at  the 
r  Sunday,  there 
ton  to  Toronto. 
:nty  hours,  was 

2  collapse  of  the 
:r,  as  they  after- 
not  guarantee  to 
twenty  hours  in 
a  scheme  of  To- 

ible  belated  trav- 


ellers to  do  the  Falls  or  Hamilton's  Mountain  (capital  M)  on 
Sunday,  when  expenses  are  lighter. 

I  at  once  decided  on  a  ramble  next  day  about  the  Falls, 
as  it  seemed  my  destiny  to  have  an  opportunity  to  see  every- 
thing.    Soon  I  was  greeted  by  a  cheery  voice,  and  recog- 
nized the  young  man  with  whom  I  had  sat  on  leaving  Wayne 
Junction.     He  was  far  from  traveling  alone,  as  I  was,  for  he 
was  one  of  a  party  of  seven,  bound  for  Minneapolis.     They 
all  crowded  about  me,  with     I      esprit  de  corps  of  fellow- 
travellers.     Besides,  it  was  u.  country  now  that  we  were  all 
in.     "This  is  the  young  man  who  gave  up  his  seat  to  you, 
and  this  is  the  one  whom  you  asked  if  the  car  you  were  in 
ran  through  to  Suspension  Bridge."     And  so  on.     A  hand- 
shake, and  they  were  all  aboard  the  through  Grand  Trunk 
train  for  Chicago.     The  English  lords  did  not  cross  the 
Bridge,  and  expressed  no  desire  to  visit  Canada.     I  hope  I 
was  in  no  way  responsible  for  this  ! 

Unwashed,  and  even  ja«j  breakfast,  I  made  an  early  morn- 
ing start  for  the  Falls.  Perhaps  I  was  as  clean  as  (and  I 
hope  I  was  no  hungrier  than)  the  few  people  astir  at  that 
early  hour.  I  had  bargained  on  being  able  to  enjoy  the  sub- 
lime spectacle  with  no  one  about  to  dictate  to  me,  or  say, 
"Look  from  this  point,  or  gaze  at  that  projecting  rock;" 
and  I  was  not  disappointed.  In  a  word,  the  Niagara  Falls 
liar  and  the  impromptu  poet  were  noii  est,  and  the  solitude 
of  the  early  morning  hour  was  a  fitting  time  to  see  the  Falls. 
I  knew,  from  my  sharp  appetite,  that  I  should  seem  to  be 
getting  the  worth  of  my  breakfast,  when  I  got  back ;  and 
again  I  was  not  disappointed.  I  crossed  the  bridge  in  the 
afternoon,  and  looked  about  on  the  American  side.  A  party 
of  Scandinavian  emigrants  who  came  in,  en  route  to  Minne- 
sota, were  too  much  worn  out  even  to  look  at  the  Falls  ;  and 
I  could  sympathize  with  them.     But  perhaps  they  did  not 


4 


^  Trip  to  U^asbiiigtoii. 


^^  *  «f  the  country,  or  realize  they 

.„„«  .>.e^»- j  *:  i;r„rt*  >r  .  .Le,  on  Canadian 
were  en pying  ^^^  P"^*'^^  ,„^  .t..  ^orld  as  in  a  dream, 
soil!    Someofusgoj^hrough^^^^^^^^        AUeast.  I  thought 
It  was  an  uneventful  ride  to  ^^       ^.^^^  ^^^k- 

so  ;  but  as  I  had  not  been  able  to  ge        y^^^^^ 
.ning  Friday  -ormng-  J  w  J  -t  ^  ^^^  ^^^^^,  ,^, 

take  in  the  scentc  ^"ra^^"'"^^^^^  ^wo  others  came  tn 

train  there  as  soon  as  it  ^*«  "^^f  ^^^^^      ^^t  i  warned  them 
shortly  afterwards,  and  m  -J^f^J^,  ,„d  a  half.     One 
th.t  the  train  did  not  ^f^^^^^^^,^,,  ^.  always  made  it 
of  them,  an  American  ^^'""J'^^l^^^^  for  him.     And  we 
,  nile  not  to  keep  -^^^y  ^f  ""^^^  o'ther  got  off  at  Bur- 
laughed,  and  were  ^o^^^^^^^^;^  ^^  ^.^dn't  walked,  to  save 
lington;  and  I   «-^;^^?t;S  hour  late  in  starting.     Two 
time,  for  we  were  ^nother^halt  ^^^    ^.^^^^      ^^ 

cowboys  who  f°»%'"  X-  but  just  why  cowboys  should 

lantern ;  and  so  I  •^^""^J^P^Xgton.  and  have  fared  ?s 
bave  come  all  the  way  ^^^V^-^^^^^^^^  'gi^g^iariy  enough, 
well  at  your  hands  as  ^^^^^ ^l^,^,,^  but  took  the  checks 
he  didn't  ask  me  to  g°J«^;  P;f^',!^„gM  me.  and  seeing  me 
for  my  machine  which  be  had  broug^  ^^^^  ^ 
all  aboard,  made  off  ^^^b  h  s  ^^        ^^^^^  ^^^  „ot 

home,  wondering  If  I  was^^;^  ^^,^  I  knew  how 

pausing  to  -<l"J'^^/^^^,t  rP<^pulation  in  the  ten  days  I 
much  Toronto  had  gainea  in  p  f 

had  been  away. 

This  last  sketch  «as«nt,en  ^«  *^^f  ^^wng' opX 
guided  friend,  «boadv.sed  me  torn 


-ri—f--^—"-' 


ealize  they 
n  Canadian 

ream. 

t,  I  thoitght 
since  awak- 
perbaps,  to       ( 
t  aboard  the 
lers  came  in 
warned  them 
I  half.     One 
fiays  made  it 
■tn.     And  we 
)t  off  at  Bur- 
Iked,  to  save 
arting.     Two 
ively.     They 
jwboys  should 

something  I 

and  I  took  his 
id  to  him,  "  1 
have  fared  as 
rularly  enough, 
!ook  the  checks 
and  seeing  me 
en  I  started  for 
t  there,  and  not 
tn  I  knew,  how 
1  the  ten  days  I 


•/f  Trip  to  H'''asbi)igton. 


423 


about  myself,  in  a  frank,  desultory  way,  without  indefensible 
clap-trap  or  any  chicken-hearted  feeling  about  egotism. 
Said  fiiend  has  been  jailed,  and  such  advice  will  hardly  be 
given  me  again  —but  if  it  should  be,  I  will  promise  not  to 
heed  it. 


THE   END. 


igation  of  a  mis- 
nnething  openly 


>  i 


m.' 


aiJ^itiW^T 


